


You were an Angel Once

by cyankelpie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s, Angst, Angst disguised as fluff, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale makes a mistake, Banter, Beatlemania, Betrayal, Blackmail, Broadway Musicals, Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Drunk Rambling, Eventual Happy Ending, Forgiveness, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Holding Hands, Holidays, Holy Water, How to redeem a demon, I wish I could tag this as a misunderstanding, Illnesses, Mutual Pining, Of the "I wish we could be together" variety not the "I wish my feelings were returned" variety, Other, Pre-Canon, Redemption, Risen demon Crowley (but hypothetical), Sort Of, Unreliable Narrator, deadlines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: In the photo, Crowley lounged across the corner of a park bench while Aziraphale sat on the other side, his mouth open in a laugh at something that Crowley had said. All the blood drained from Aziraphale’s face. “I-I can explain.”“Oh, there’s no need,” said Michael sweetly. “I’m sure I already understand.”With a great effort, Aziraphale tore his eyes from the photo and looked up at her.“Truly admirable,” she continued, “to try saving the soul of a demon.”(Aziraphale has two years to save Crowley's soul and convert him back into an angel. If he fails, he will be ordered to kill Crowley with holy water.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 303
Kudos: 255
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before we begin, I feel compelled to draw attention to the "Aziraphale makes a mistake" tag, and also the "unreliable narrator" tag. Aziraphale has been brainwashed his entire life and it shows! If you think Aziraphale is not being a great friend, that is probably why! The plot will not justify him!

“…And,” Aziraphale continued, forcing the same smile he always used when delivering his reports in heaven, “Since last quarter, I estimate that sin in London has dropped by at least…” He picked a number at random. “…thirty-two percent.”

“Wow!” Gabriel applauded with his usual plastic smile. “That is a very specific estimate, Aziraphale. Well done!”

Aziraphale nodded modestly. He had learned the meaningless-statistic trick from Crowley, who apparently used it all the time when reporting to hell. Gabriel fell for it every time. The other archangels, not so much, but they hadn’t called Aziraphale out on it yet. Since there was no actual way to measure sin numerically, they couldn’t disprove his claims, and he _had_ said it was only an estimate.

The other archangels clapped with less enthusiasm than Gabriel. Michael cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, you may have a bit more trouble coming your way, Aziraphale. I have word from a reliable source that the opposition has recently returned to London.”

Aziraphale perked up. Was Crowley back from his trip to America already? It must have been very recent, if he hadn’t yet dropped by to see Aziraphale. He’d have to ring the demon for lunch so they could catch up. Crowley always had the most fascinating stories to share.

“I see,” he said, schooling his features into something a little more disapproving. “Well, as always, I relish a good challenge. One can’t battle the forces of evil if there’s no one there to battle.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Gabriel’s eyebrows rose and he laughed loudly. “Very good, Aziraphale! I’ll have to remember that one.”

“What is your strategy for the upcoming quarter?” Uriel asked.

“Well, of course, if the opposition has returned, I will need to dedicate a large portion of my efforts to thwarting,” said Aziraphale. “There has also been quite an increase in the popularity of certain musical genres, which has raised moral concerns with some parties, so I will need to further investigate the effects of those…” He continued on, watching the archangel’s nods until they seemed satisfied that he had listed enough things. “And I believe that will allow me to make great progress towards our yearly targets.”

“Great!” Gabriel clapped his hands together. “Keep up the good work, Aziraphale. We’re all impressed with what you’ve done.”

The others didn’t look impressed, but they never did. Aziraphale nodded at them and tried to look like he believed Gabriel. “Always good to hear. Now, unless there is anything else…”

“I don’t believe we had any specific upcoming assignments,” said Uriel. “But, as always, be on the lookout for our communications.”

“I always am.” He made a movement that was half a nod and half a bow, and took a step back. “I’ll be seeing you, then.”

Thank goodness that was over. Quarterly reports were like pulling teeth. All he really wanted to do was return to his shop and have a cup of tea, maybe call Crowley and arrange a time for lunch—

He was halfway to the escalator when Michael stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Might I have a quick word?”

“Certainly.” He waited.

She flicked her head off to one side. “In my office, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh. Er, sure. Lead the way.”

The archangels didn’t often hold private meetings with their underlings, and he had no idea what he was in for. Was this an early performance review? Had he said something wrong in his report, and Michael hadn’t wanted to embarrass him by correcting him in front of the others? No, she would have no qualms about embarrassing Aziraphale. In fact, she’d probably relish the opportunity.

The window of Michael’s office overlooked an idealized replica of the city Mohenjo-Daro as it had looked three thousand years prior, with the additions of a few stone Olmec heads and a large Ferris wheel. Aziraphale took a moment to appreciate the view to distract himself from his nerves. The door shut behind him with a loud _click_.

“Aziraphale.” Michael swept around to the other side of her standing desk and gave him a smile that did not look remotely genuine. “You do spend so much time on Earth. How are you holding up?”

“Just fine, thank you.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what she was angling at. Should he be acting more unhappy about being away from heaven so much?

“I do wonder,” she went on, “whether all that time down there might start to influence you. Up here, you know, we are all surrounded by Her grace, and by the Heavenly Host, at all times. On Earth…” she made a mildly disgusted face. “I wonder that you don’t get lonely all by yourself, with no other angels around.”

“I manage.” Aziraphale hoped Michael wasn’t going to suggest he return to heaven for a “vacation.” Gabriel had talked him into that once in the 1300’s, and it had been almost a century before he convinced them to let him go back to work. Poor Crowley had been left alone all that time.

“It has been so long, though,” said Michael, feigning sympathy. “I imagine you have to put up with all sorts of people down there. There could even be a possibility of…” She lowered her voice, even though they were alone in a closed room. “…bad influences.”

Aziraphale tried very hard not to react. She could mean anything by that. “I am an angel. I imagine that my good influence far outweighs any risk of—”

“I’ve come across certain photographs, Aziraphale.” Her tone was suddenly harder, sharper. She reached into a drawer of her desk and pulled a polaroid photo, which she placed on the desk. “It appears you have had to put up with some very distasteful company indeed.”

Aziraphale tried to swallow, but his throat had seized up. In the photo, Crowley lounged across the corner of a park bench while Aziraphale sat on the other side, his mouth open in a laugh at something that Crowley had said. All the blood drained from Aziraphale’s face. “I-I can explain.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” said Michael sweetly. “I’m sure I already understand.”

With a great effort, Aziraphale tore his eyes from the photo and looked up at her.

“Truly admirable,” she continued, “to try saving the soul of a demon. It can’t have been easy for you to put up with him.”

She didn’t believe what she was saying. Aziraphale could see it in her eyes. So that was what this was. She was handing him a way out, but if he took it, she would control his story. He had no choice but to take the bait. “Yes, exactly,” he said, forcing a smile. “It is quite a trial, but you know what they say: hate the sin, love the sinner.”

Terror seized him when he realized what he had said, and he channeled in into a high, nervous laugh. Michael laughed along with him, like they were sharing a private joke. Aziraphale wanted to throw himself out the window and dash himself to pieces on one of the Olmec heads.

“I must admit,” said Michael, when she had finally stopped laughing, “I doubt most of the angels in heaven would dare attempt it. But, if we could redeem demons and bring them back into the Light, imagine what a boon it would be to our cause.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Aziraphale lied.

“Do you believe it can be done?”

He had no choice but to nod.

Michael actually looked a little impressed, though Aziraphale suspected she was more impressed by how brazenly he could lie to her than by the actual content of anything he had said. “If you succeed, you would of course be most highly rewarded. However, if the task does prove impossible, we shall be most understanding.”

Aziraphale blinked. Oh. Now she was going to actually expect him to do it.

She reached for something in a cabinet below her desk. “And, if demons cannot be redeemed,” she said, setting a glass bottle of something clear in front of Aziraphale, “then I’m afraid there is only one thing we can do for them.”

If Aziraphale had been frightened when she showed him the photograph, he was terrified now. He couldn’t move. For a moment, he couldn’t even speak. He stared at the bottle in front of him. “T-that’s, ah. Holy water.”

Michael nodded, steepling her fingers above the desk. “If the demon resists your best efforts, he is of no further use to you or anyone. The best thing to do in that case would be to eliminate him. Don’t you agree?”

Aziraphale tried to answer, but his voice wouldn’t work, and the only thing in his head were nightmares of Crowley screaming, disappearing as holy water ate through him, and then, even worse, a world in which Crowley no longer existed. He blinked hard a few times, tried to pull himself together at least a little bit, and nodded.

“Excellent,” said Michael. “Take this bottle back to Earth when you return, in case of emergencies. You appear to have already spent a considerable amount of time on this endeavor, so I believe it would be best not to expend too much more effort. We do want you to spend your time where it will have the most effect, after all. Will you be able to bring this to a close by…Oh, I don’t know…This time next year?”

A year? She wanted him to save Crowley’s soul in a single year, when he had spent thousands as a demon? He cleared something from his throat and said, “Perhaps I will need a little more time than that.”

“Very well. Two years.” Her tone suggested that this was final.

Two years to save Crowley, or they would ask Aziraphale to kill him. And when he couldn’t do that, Michael would leak those photos to the rest of the office. Aziraphale would be finished, and Crowley—He didn’t even want to think about what might happen to Crowley.

“I wish you the best of luck.” A clear dismissal.

Aziraphale picked up the bottle of holy water and hoped she didn’t notice how his hand shook. It only made sense that Michael would be the one to discover the Arrangement. The hypocrisy of it almost made him want to laugh. “By the way,” he said, “thank you for alerting me to the opposition’s return to England. You’re always remarkably well-informed about our enemy’s movements.”

Michael met his eyes with a hint of surprise. Aziraphale smiled back, meeting her eyes so she could not mistake his meaning. Anyone with half a brain could guess where Michael’s “intelligence” came from.

“I am _so_ glad your sources are reliable,” said Aziraphale.

One corner of Michael’s mouth twisted up. “I’m afraid you, and everyone else, will have to take my word for that.”

Ah. There was the issue. Aziraphale did not have the advantage of photographic evidence to back up his suspicions.

“You had best be on your way, Aziraphale,” she said, still smiling, or perhaps smirking. “The forces of good depend upon your success.”

Aziraphale nodded, said, “Thank you,” and left, the bottle of holy water still shaking in his grasp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They would be on the same side.
> 
> Aziraphale drew a sharp breath. Oh, that was—That would be—They could—
> 
> A marvelous daydream unfolded in his head. He stared blankly into the distance until he realized he had been fantasizing about holding Crowley’s hand for a full fifteen minutes, and then shook himself out of it, his face warm. He was getting ahead of himself. Oh, but it would be so wonderful if he succeeded—
> 
>  _When_ he succeeded. He didn’t have a choice.

The first thing Aziraphale did when he got to the bookshop was pour the holy water into the window box. Or, at least, he tried to. The water pooled near the open mouth of the bottle and stopped, held back by some invisible membrane. “Poppycock,” Aziraphale muttered. He tried shaking and thumping it like a bottle of ketchup. The water sloshed around inside, but stopped short when it reached the mouth of the bottle. With a sigh, he gave up, closed the window, and set the bottle on the table.

Heaven-issued items, in Aziraphale’s experience, tended not to work unless used with intent. If a guardian swung a flaming sword carelessly and hit an innocent bystander, the blade would pass right through. If the sword were misplaced, or if an angel chucked it over a wall just to get rid of it, the sword would return to wherever it belonged. However, if, just as an example, the same sword was given away with purpose, it would stick. When swung with the intent to injure, a flaming sword was deadly. If, Aziraphale tried to pour out the holy water with the intent of _using_ it…

He shuddered and stuffed the cork tightly back into the bottle. That would never happen, so he was stuck with a bottle of holy water until heaven (more specifically, Michael) decided he didn’t need it anymore. Michael had probably assumed that day wouldn’t come. This was a test of his loyalty more than anything else. If she wasn’t an angel, Aziraphale might have thought she was trying to torment him by making him try to save Crowley before ordering him to kill him. Saving a demon was assumed by most angels to be an impossible task. Aziraphale had never even thought about it before.

Could it be done, though? If angels could Fall, it seemed only logical that demons could Rise. And, if any demon could be redeemed, it would be Crowley.

Aziraphale put on his reading glasses, sat down at his desk, and got out a sheet of paper and a pen. If he only had two years, he would need to be extremely efficient. Aziraphale had brought his fair share of human souls back into the Light, and the basic principle should be the same with a demon. There would be a lot more sin to deal with, since Crowley had been alive much longer, and it was basically his job. It was not, however, who Crowley was as a person. Aziraphale had known him long enough to understand that.

Aziraphale titled the paper _Redemption,_ and underneath that he wrote, _compassion._ That was where he usually started. People needed to care about the people that their actions affected before they could be convinced to care about changing them. Crowley would disagree, of course, and claim people needed a self-serving motivation before they would improve their actions. That was because Crowley didn’t know what he was talking about.

Compassion wouldn’t be much of a challenge when it came to Crowley. He had a bigger heart than anyone Aziraphale had ever met, including some angels. He cared so much sometimes that it made Aziraphale feel inadequate. He put a check mark next to _compassion_.

Next came _remorse,_ which was not the same thing as guilt, no matter what Crowley said. Guilt sometimes afflicted people even after the Almighty had forgiven them, at which point it served no purpose but to torment them. Aziraphale frowned. If he was relying on Her forgiveness and grace to save Crowley, this might prove much more difficult than saving a human. But if She had taken Crowley’s divinity, wasn’t She the one who could give it back?

This was confusing. He left _remorse_ (leaving plenty of room for notes) and moved on to _repentance_. Things always got tricky when the time came for the target to translate their feelings of remorse into actual words and actions. When Aziraphale failed to save a human, this was usually where the problem occurred. A lot of them would rather just continue feeling bad than apologize or try to make up for their actions. Repentance also required the intention of changing oneself for the better, which was usually difficult, but he doubted it would be an issue here. Of course Crowley would want to be an angel again.

He stopped for a moment, the pen poised above the paper. Crowley, as an angel. There was a thought. He’d been so worked up that the implications hadn’t had time to settle in. What had Crowley been like, before he Fell? He tried to picture Crowley in a white robe instead of his usual black, sans sunglasses, with round pupils instead of slitted ones. Aziraphale hoped the brilliant color of those eyes would stay the same after redemption, at least.

Crowley would probably grumble about the aesthetics of wearing white, but despite appearances, there was no actual dress code in heaven, which was how Aziraphale got away with his little snatches of tartan here and there. Crowley could be just as much of an angel if he wore black. What mattered was that he would be on the side of Good again. He wouldn’t have to bury all the best parts of himself. He could do good works, and maybe he and Aziraphale could work together. They would—

They would be on the same side.

Aziraphale drew a sharp breath. Oh, that was—That would be—They could—

A marvelous daydream unfolded in his head. He stared blankly into the distance until he realized he had been fantasizing about holding Crowley’s hand for a full fifteen minutes, and then shook himself out of it, his face warm. He was getting ahead of himself. Oh, but it would be so wonderful if he succeeded—

 _When_ he succeeded. He didn’t have a choice.

The bottle on the table caught his eye again. He didn’t want it sitting out where he had to look at it. More importantly, he couldn’t risk Crowley finding it, particularly if he still wanted “insurance.” Aziraphale set down the pen, took the bottle into the kitchen, and stuffed it behind a box of smooth penne which he had bought by mistake shortly before he gave up learning to cook.

Back at the desk, Aziraphale looked over the paper and wondered what else he should write down. He would need to take notes once he had gotten the process started, but what else could he plan now? Should he schedule out the different phases? Lay out an agenda to cover with Crowley over the next two years?

No, soul-saving was more of an art than a science. Some planning would be necessary, but he needed enough wiggle room to change course if necessary. He would brainstorm, but no approach would be guaranteed to work, and some would depend on the circumstances and Crowley’s mood. He would need to play much of this by ear. Which was not comforting, when he was on a strict deadline.

Sitting here and trying to plan when he knew nothing of Crowley’s state of mind was not helpful. Perhaps they would go for that dinner now. He set down the pen, drew a deep breath to calm himself, and dialed Crowley’s number.

It only three times instead of five before Crowley picked up, which meant that he had not been asleep. “A. J. Crowley speaking.”

The tension from Aziraphale’s meeting with Michael drained out of his body at the sound of that familiar voice. “Crowley,” he said, breaking into a smile. “You horrible fiend. You should have told me you were back in London.”

“S’at you, angel?” his tone, which had been flat when he answered the phone, took on more life. “I only just got back. Still unpacking. You can hardly blame me for not calling you first thing.”

“I certainly can,” said Aziraphale. “You will have to make it up to me. Are you available for dinner tonight?”

“I’ll do you one better. I’ve got tickets to see a musical. Whaddaya say?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Tonight?”

“I was gonna drop by later and surprise you,” Crowley admitted.

Aziraphale’s smile softened. It had been too long since they had seen each other, and the idea that Crowley was as eager to meet up as he was made his heart swell. “How thoughtful.”

“Did I say surprise? I meant distract, from whatever good, angelic stuff you’re up to. That’s what I do.”

“Luckily, my schedule is quite open for any distractions.” Crowley was always a welcome distraction, anyway, even if Aziraphale did happen to be working. “What time should I expect you?”

“Say, eight?”

“Then I’ll see you at eight, my dear.” Perhaps because of everything that had happened, or simply because it had been too long since he had seen Crowley, he added, “I look forward to it.”

“Mhm. Yep,” said Crowley, in typical barely-coherent fashion. “I better keep unpacking, then. See you soon.”

He hung up with a _click_. Aziraphale put down the receiver, a smile still lingering on his face. Time with Crowley was always a treat, particularly after a meeting in heaven. It was always nice to get away from work for a little while.

Demon or not, at heart, Crowley was a romantic. He insisted that Aziraphale loved romantic stories so he’d have an excuse to take him to plays and operas and watch them himself. It took very little prodding from Aziraphale to convince him to read all of Jane Austen’s novels, though to hear him tell it Aziraphale had nagged him through every page. He hated _Romeo and Juliet_ , for obvious reasons, and _The Great Gatsby_ , for slightly less obvious ones. He did not hate most stories with a happy ending, and adored almost anything that involved an unlikely couple.

So Aziraphale was not at all surprised when the show that Crowley had picked out involved a pious mission worker and a high-rolling gambler who started out bickering and ended up falling for each other. It was a little on the nose, but that sort of thing had stopped bothering him a while ago. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, as they left the theater. “I quite enjoyed that.”

“Thought you might,” said Crowley. “Didn’t like it as much as I thought I would, myself.”

Aziraphale turned to him in surprise. “You hadn’t seen it before?”

Crowley shook his head. “Wanted to, while I was in America, but.” He shrugged. “No one to go with, y’know.”

Aziraphale smiled. He was sure there had been plenty of people who would have been happy to accompany Crowley, if he had wanted their company. “What didn’t you like about it?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Something about how it ended.”

The ending had seemed perfect to Aziraphale. The gambler reformed and quit gambling, which had been the main thing standing between himself and the mission worker, and they got married. “I liked the ending.”

“You would,” Crowley said. “Back to the shop?”

The drive back was terrifying, as usual, and by the time Crowley finally stopped the car Aziraphale was so tense he felt like he might never relax again. “I certainly haven’t missed your driving,” he shuddered, getting out of the car. “Won’t you come inside for a moment?”

Crowley pretended to think about it. “Guess I’ve got nothing else on for the evening.”

Soon, Crowley was sprawled across the sofa with a glass of port dangling from one hand while Aziraphale refilled his own glass in his chair. “I don’t quite understand,” said Aziraphale, frowning. “You’ve been working with…bugs?”

“No, _Beatles,_ Aziraphale,” Crowley corrected. “B-E-A-T. They’re a band. You can’t possibly never have heard of them.”

Of course Aziraphale had heard of them, but he shook his head so Crowley would tell him more.

With a dramatic sigh, Crowley threw up a hand and snapped his fingers. The gramophone in the corner came to life, and a catchy guitar riff rang through the shop. _Asked a girl what she wanted to be, she said baby, can’t you see…_

“They’re huge all over the world,” said Crowley. “I heard they were going on tour, and that gave me an idea, so I asked my bosses if I could follow them for a bit and see what I could do. They’re calling it ‘Beatlemania _._ ’”

Aziraphale did not like the sound of this. He especially didn’t like the way Crowley was grinning about it. “What did you do?”

“Surprisingly little, actually,” said Crowley. “Bit of encouragement here and there. Really, I just nudged them along when they were getting themselves into a frenzy. But boy, did my side love it. The fans are so out of control, you can pin any sin you want on them. Idolatry, lust, envy, wrath—”

“Wrath?”

“Er—I dunno, probably.” Crowley grinned at him. “Genius, right?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in discouragement, but unfortunately that never actually discouraged Crowley. That had never mattered before, but now he needed Crowley to feel remorse for his actions. “It rather sounds as though you’ve caused a lot of mayhem.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sounded proud of himself.

“That’s a lot of trouble that people are going to have to deal with,” Aziraphale pointed out, although he didn’t really know enough about the specifics of beatlemania to understand the consequences. He might need to become a lot more familiar with popular culture if he wanted to convince Crowley why his actions were bad. That was a formidable thought.

“Mayhem? It’s America.” Crowley took a sip of wine. “Some people’ll take any excuse to cause a moral panic. You remember how they were about jazz?”

“That was ridiculous,” Aziraphale huffed. “It’s just music.”

Crowley pointed to the gramophone. “So’s this.”

_…Baby you can drive my car, and maybe I love you…_

“Now, don’t get any ideas,” said Crowley, looking at him seriously. “You’re not getting behind the wheel of my Bentley anytime soon.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think I can live with that.”

The song petered out, and another took its place. _Well, shake it on baby now (shake it on baby), twist and shout (twist and shout)…_

“They’ve got talent, I’ll give them that,” said Crowley, waving his wine glass towards the gramophone. “Catchy, isn’t it? Makes you want to dance.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Perhaps it makes _you_ want to dance.”

Crowley looked at him for a moment, his grin widening. To Aziraphale’s horror, he got to his feet.

“Oh, don’t,” he begged Crowley. “Please.”

“What? I like the beat.” Crowley started to do a ridiculous-looking shimmy. “You could do it too, if you wanted.”

Aziraphale covered his eyes, trying not to laugh. “You are a terrible dancer, Crowley.”

“Oh, sorry, am I embarrassing you in front of your books?”

“You are embarrassing _yourself_ in front of _me._

“What are you gonna do, kick me out?” Crowley extended a hand. “C’mon, angel, get up. Dance with me.”

“I beg your pardon—?”

“I mean, not— _with_ me, with me. Does this look like a partner dance?”

Aziraphale watched him for a second as he twisted his body back and forth, his elbows up and one leg forward. “It doesn’t look like a dance at all.”

Crowley shrugged off the insult. “It’s fun. C’mon, try it.”

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale reminded him. It occurred to him that, if he wanted Crowley to return to angelhood, perhaps he ought to try to put a stop to this sort of unangelic behavior. But how could he do that, when Crowley was having fun?

“I happen to know there’s at least one angel who dances,” said Crowley. “Oh, right, that was you.”

“That dance was a great deal more elegant than whatever you’re doing right now.” Aziraphale might have a much harder time than he had anticipated getting Crowley to act more angelic. “Honestly, Crowley, I invite you into my home and this is how you conduct yourself.”

“You knew what you were getting into.”

Aziraphale gave up. Crowley wouldn’t be redeemed by giving up dancing, anyway, and he already knew that angels could dance and remain angels. “Fine,” he said. “Dance all you want, only don’t try to drag me into it.”

The realization that he was not going to get Aziraphale to dance finally convinced Crowley to stop. “You’re no fun.”

As the song petered out, Aziraphale decided he’d had quite enough of the Beatles for now and turned off the gramophone.

“Some good music in that show tonight,” said Crowley, wandering in a circle between the sofa and the chair “Didn’t you think? _And the people all said sit down…”_

 _“Sit down, you’re rocking the boat,”_ Aziraphale joined in.

 _“And the devil will draaaaag you under—”_ Crowley whirled around, grabbed Aziraphale’s arm and pulled him out of the chair.

Aziraphale let out a yell as his wine glass slipped out of his hand and spilled over the carpet. He thumped to the floor in a laughing heap. “Crowley—!”

Crowley was laughing too, though he mostly looked embarrassed. “Somehow I thought you’d just bounce. Er, sorry.” He cleaned up the wine with a wave of his hand, poured Aziraphale another glass, and handed it to him. He sat down on the floor in front of the sofa.

Aziraphale raised one eyebrow. “I suppose sitting on the floor is the done thing now?”

“Well, you were doing it, so.”

“Only because I was rudely pulled out of my chair.”

“You can get back up if you want.” Crowley leaned forward to reach his wine glass and started singing another song from the show. “ _But this is wiiiiine that’s far too strange and strong…_ ”

“ _I’m full of foolish song._ ” Aziraphale giggled. “Oh, that’s very applicable, isn’t it.”

“ _And out my song must pour,_ ” Crowley finished, grinning. He drank some wine, set the glass on the table, and lay down flat on the floor with his limbs splayed out.

Aziraphale kept singing. “ _So please forgiiiive…_ ” he forgot some of the words and hummed the next bit vaguely. “… _Hm hmm hm hmm, I’m in…_ ”

Crowley let out a small, breathy laugh and shook his head. “Angel.”

“… _I’ve really never been…_ ”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted quietly. “You’re drunk.”

“ _In lo_ —Oh.” They’d been singing the song in which the two leads in the play finally acknowledged their feelings for each other. He hadn’t even noticed. “Perhaps I am a bit fuddled,” he said, even though he hadn’t had more than two glasses of wine.

They reached this point almost every time they drank together, when one of them would stray a little closer than usual to the line they had drawn between themselves, and blame it on the alcohol. It meant it was time to sober up, and shortly after that it would be time for Crowley to go home. But it felt like the night had only just gotten started.

Aziraphale needed more time with Crowley if he was going to save him. He needed to be around him enough to have an influence, enough for certain topics to come up in conversation more or less naturally. The more opportunities he had to talk to Crowley, the better.

Crowley was already sobering up. “Think I’d better head back. Wiles to plan. London’s gotten a bit too peaceful in my absence.”

“I assure you, it hasn’t.” They hadn’t even finished one bottle, and Crowley had only just gotten back. Surely he could be convinced to stay just a little longer.

But if Aziraphale broke their usual pattern, Crowley would know something was going on. If he guessed what Aziraphale was doing—Well, Aziraphale wasn’t sure what would happen, but he didn’t think it would be good. Soul-saving could not be forced, and if the target realized Aziraphale’s intentions it always threw a wrench into his plans. None of his assignments had ever been as important as this. He would need every advantage he could get.

“I’ll be seeing you, then, I hope.” Aziraphale sobered up and got off the floor.

Crowley waved in mock salute. “‘Till next time.”

By next time, Aziraphale should have more of a plan. Today had not been very productive. He couldn’t even stop Crowley from dancing, and they hadn’t had nearly enough wine for the sort of unfiltered conversation Aziraphale was counting on. Next time he would need more caution to keep Crowley here longer. He had gotten too caught up in the enjoyment of seeing his best friend again after his trip. Maybe he could afford to make that mistake once, but any more would be a waste of valuable time.

“Next time,” he said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The musical they watch here is _Guys and Dolls,_ because it seemed thematically appropriate, and the songs are ["Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vzNZKk67vU) and ["I've Never Been in Love Before"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wBbKMSnbrw). I recommend listening to all the music from this show if you haven't before, not because it will be relevant, but because it's very catchy and I like it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem was that nothing Crowley did was that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, starting this: Yeah two years sounds like a reasonable amount of time for everything that I want to happen  
> Me realizing this means writing two years of content: Wait.
> 
> This doesn't mean there will be 24 chapters, but I'm going to spend some more time on their meetings at the beginning so there's some nice fluff to hopefully balance out the angst that's to come. (I swear they aren't going to watch musicals every time)

How long, Aziraphale wondered, was long enough between meetings? How long could he wait without Crowley wondering why he had called again so soon? How long could he risk waiting, and still see Crowley often enough to be able to save him? Once a month? That probably wasn’t long enough to avoid Crowley’s suspicion, but Aziraphale wasn’t sure if even monthly meetings over two years would be sufficient to save his soul. Twenty-four sessions to turn a demon into an angel. Would it be nearly enough?

He waited three weeks, and then decided that rounded up to a month anyway. Crowley was surprised to hear from him, as he had been afraid of. “Aziraphale, hey. Something wrong?”

“Ah—No, not exactly.” One hand worried at the phone cord. “Something for the Arrangement,” he improvised. “I thought perhaps we could meet up to talk?” After a pause, he added, “And, perhaps, if there was another musical in town that you were interested in seeing…”

“Sounds great,” said Crowley. “Dinner first? That way we get work out of the way.”

Aziraphale should have thought of that last time. It was much easier to talk to Crowley over a meal than in a crowded theater hall. “That would be lovely.”

Over dinner, Aziraphale made up an assignment that involved convincing a few disenfranchised young hooligans to find a more productive outlet for their frustration. It shouldn’t be difficult to find some. Plus, doing good deeds would likely have a positive influence on Crowley, and speed up his redemption. “I know it’s not your usual scene, but I’d be very grateful if you could take care of it for me,” he said, once he had explained the situation in vague enough terms to leave himself room to change the story later.

“Sure, I can scare the kids straight,” said Crowley, sipping his wine.

“That’s not exactly what I—”

“Is that all, though?” Crowley asked. “You sounded nervous on the phone, but that doesn’t seem like a big deal.”

Crowley knew him too well. “That’s all, there’s nothing else,” Aziraphale said too quickly. “Nothing that should concern you, anyway. How has your work been going?”

Crowley didn’t look like he believed Aziraphale, but let the matter drop. “Pretty good, actually.” He grinned. “You remember that massive traffic pileup last Thursday?”

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t remember it, because he didn’t drive, but it didn’t sound like something that would help redeem Crowley. “You really oughtn’t do that. Those people were trying to go somewhere.”

“Oh, boo-hoo, a few people were late to their appointments,” Crowley said dismissively. “Everyone’s in too much hurry these days, anyway. Serves ‘em right.”

“What if it was urgent?” said Aziraphale. “What if there was a…a pregnant woman, on the way to the hospital, and she couldn’t get there in time? And there were complications?”

Crowley frowned and set up straighter. “Why, was there? Did you hear about one?”

“Well, there could have been.”

Crowley relaxed. “I’ll have to check for medical emergencies next time and make sure they can still get through. Good note, Aziraphale.”

That wasn’t exactly what he had meant, but it would have to be good enough.

“And you?” Crowley asked. “How’s the shop? And all the good deeds?” He added a mocking tone to the last two words.

“Actually, it’s been a very good couple of weeks,” said Aziraphale, smiling. “A few students came into my shop to do research for a school project, and I helped them out a great deal. It is appalling how inaccurate some of their history books are.” He took a moment to be indignant about it before he added, “And it is so fulfilling to help another person, don’t you think?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You know what’s fulfilling?” he said, setting down his wine glass. “Not this wine. Definitively sub-par.” He waved a hand over the wine to turn it into something that suited his taste better.

Aziraphale sipped his own glass to make sure it had stayed the same. “I don’t see why you bother complaining when you can just fix it yourself.”

“Complaining’s fun!” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be where I am today without it.”

He said it with a wry half-smile, but Aziraphale frowned. He didn’t feel like joking about where complaining had gotten Crowley.

“‘Sides, isn’t there a bible verse about that?” Crowley went on. “‘Bitch about something enough, and ye shall receive’?”

Aziraphale choked on his wine. “That is _not_ how the verse goes, Crowley!”

Crowley threw back his head and laughed. Aziraphale huffed indignantly, and wished Crowley didn’t find it quite so entertaining to annoy him.

The show that Crowley had chosen this time was more nonsensical than the first, involving a lot of teenage antics that Aziraphale didn’t understand. At one point, all the young women onstage started screaming just because a male celebrity was singing a song. “Is that the sort of thing you did in America?” he whispered to Crowley.

“Hm? Oh, you mean with the Beatles?” Crowley shook his head. “Nah, this is an analogue for Elvis. I wasn’t there when he was drafted.” He waited long enough for Aziraphale to relax before he added, “Beatlemania’s way more extreme.”

Aziraphale shot him a disapproving look.

“Wish I could take more credit,” Crowley said. “It’s embarrassing how little I had to do.”

Aziraphale turned back to the stage, where the female extras had started fainting. “People really react this way? He’s only a singer.”

“Well, y’know.” Crowley shrugged. “Teenagers.”

Adolescence was one of those human things that Aziraphale and Crowley would never really understand. Aziraphale had never understood why teenage hormones were part of the Great Plan, but that was ineffability for you. “Oh,” said Aziraphale, nodding. “That explains it.”

“That was a bit stupid,” Crowley admitted, as they left the theater.

“A bit,” Aziraphale agreed.

“Catchy music, though.” Crowley grinned and skipped a little on the way back to the car. “ _I’ve got a lot of livin’ to do…_ ”

“You’ve had nearly six thousand years of living already.”

“And still haven’t seen all the plays and musicals!” Crowley turned around and spread his arms wide, beaming. “Humans’re always writing new stuff, even if it’s stupid. Gotta love that about ‘em.”

“It’s not all new,” said Aziraphale. “They re-use a lot of their plotlines and archetypes.”

“Always some fresh take, though. Everyone’s got to leave their own mark on the world, and none of them are exactly the same.”

Aziraphale couldn’t stop smiling. He loved to see Crowley excited, and the demon loved humanity as no other demon did. He would make such a splendid angel.

Crowley opened the passenger side door of the Bentley and waved Aziraphale inside with a dramatic bow. Aziraphale chuckled as Crowley closed the door. “Makes you wonder what it’d be like,” said Crowley, as he got into the driver’s side. “Getting left on Earth with no instructions. They could do anything, and they choose to make art and music and stories.”

Aziraphale buckled himself in and thought for a moment. “What would you do, if you weren’t a demon, and didn’t have to spread evil?”

Crowley looked at the steering wheel for a second, then glanced up at Aziraphale before looking back down. “I dunno.”

He was definitely thinking about something. Aziraphale wished he would say what. He certainly didn’t seem opposed to the idea of not being a demon.

“What would you do if you weren’t an angel?” he asked.

“Oh. Er…Perhaps I’d own a bookshop.”

“You’d probably have to sell some of them, then.”

“Perhaps I’d own a book collection _,_ ” Aziraphale corrected.

“You already do that. That’s a boring answer.”

“At least I have an answer.”

Crowley thought for a moment. “Know what I’d do? Paint.” He turned to give Aziraphale a toothy grin. “Badly.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Why on Earth would ‘badly’ be your goal?”

“Why not? Nobody’s counting on it being good. S’no pressure.” Crowley shrugged. “And what’s more human than trying to leave your mark on the world as clumsily as possible?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I believe most of them strive to get better at whatever they do.”

“Not me. I’d get worse _._ ”

He was probably joking, and Aziraphale knew he was not speaking morally, but he still didn’t like to hear Crowley say that he would choose to get worse in any sense of the word. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think you’d be quite the artist.”

Crowley groaned. “Only you could make a complement sound like an insult.”

“You were the one bragging about your artistic shortcomings just now.” Aziraphale bent forward to look up at the night sky through the windshield. There was too much city light to see the stars, but he pretended they were there, anyway, and smiled. “Besides, I’ve seen your work before, and I happen to know you’re quite talented.”

When he looked back at Crowley, the demon was frowning and looking straight through the windshield. He drew a deep breath. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m a demon after all, so the world gets a reprieve from all the terrible art I might’ve created.” Aziraphale caught a glimpse of his eyes behind his shades as they flicked towards the sky. “Apart from what’s already there, I guess.”

Aziraphale hummed doubtfully. Would heaven let Crowley go back to his old job as starmaker? They didn’t churn out stars and planets like they had in the old days, but surely there was still some demand? He would like the opportunity to watch Crowley at work.

“Interesting thought, isn’t it?” said Crowley more quietly. “If you and I weren’t an angel and a demon.”

Aziraphale did not like to think about not being an angel. Even if Crowley was only talking about being human, it felt too close to the idea of Falling for his comfort. Perhaps the concept appealed to Crowley for similar reasons. “Interesting,” he agreed.

He should have known better than to bring up the stars. Crowley had only talked about his past in heaven a handful of times in their acquaintance, and only when he was extremely drunk. It probably wouldn’t be the last time Aziraphale mentioned it during these next two years, but they would both need a great deal more alcohol next time, or Crowley would close off again. Returning to the subject tonight was too risky, so Aziraphale stuck to safer topics, like Crowley’s most recent evildoings.

“Evildoings” might be too strong a word to describe them. In addition to the traffic jam, Crowley had, in the past three weeks, switched the “pull” and “push” signs on a few doors, cracked one egg in every single carton at the supermarket, moved too slowly through the checkout queue, and put a restaurant out of business.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale told himself that he was definitely upset about the evil of shutting down a business and putting the employees out of work, and not about the fact that the restaurant in question was his third-favorite place in London to get tikka masala. “That was somebody’s livelihood.”

Crowley shrugged. “Some other restaurant will open in its place. Maybe the next one’ll treat their employees a little better.”

Aziraphale relaxed. “Fine, then. What else have you done?”

“Enough about me.” Crowley picked himself off the sofa with a grunt to reach the wine bottle. “Have you got any good stories recently?”

Apart from helping out a few people here and there, Aziraphale hadn’t done anything particularly noteworthy. He had also devoted a lot of his time to digging up his old reports where he discussed saving mortals’ souls and going over his old notes to remind himself what had worked in the past. So far, everything still pointed towards the need for remorse, which had been his goal in today’s meeting. But Crowley didn’t seem to have done anything evil enough to be worth feeling remorse for.

“Not really.” Aziraphale thought for a moment. “There was this one woman who came in looking for a book, and she said—but that probably wouldn’t interest you.”

“When has that ever stopped you from telling me before?”

Aziraphale shot him an annoyed look.

Crowley shrugged. “Well, it’s not my fault you called me up before you had anything interesting to share.”

Aziraphale tried not to look as appalled as he felt. Was that what Crowley thought? Was Aziraphale crowding him, by only waiting three weeks since their last meeting? “If I’m boring you, you’re welcome to leave,” he said, somewhere between embarrassed and insulted.

“Not what I meant,” said Crowley. “You are boring me, though. Can’t expect me to do all the work in the conversation.” He drank a bit of his wine and set down the glass. “C’mon, angel. What’s on your mind?”

Was it that obvious that his mind had been somewhere else? Internally, he was scouring his mental notes on Crowley’s demonic acts to find something he could use to inspire remorse. The problem was that nothing Crowley did was that bad. Aziraphale had thought that would make saving him easier, but instead it meant he had nowhere to start. Aziraphale doubted he’d be able to convince Crowley to repent for all the harmless inconveniences he had caused humans, particularly when he knew Aziraphale didn’t think they were that bad to begin with. And in the rare instances when Crowley had done something truly awful, it was always either by accident or because hell had forced him to, and it haunted him for years afterwards. Crowley could be infuriating at times, but at the end of the day he was _good._

Aziraphale had been quiet for too long. He shook himself out of his thoughts. “I—there’s a rare book auction coming up next week. You know how preoccupied I get with those.”

“You and your books.” If Crowley noticed that he was lying, he didn’t say anything.

Aziraphale didn’t understand it. If Crowley was wholly good, he would not still be a demon. There must be some part of him that still needed to change, some snatch of evil that he still clung to, some egregious thing he had done and never repented for…

The Fall. Of course. If Falling had made him a demon, then repenting for it should redeem him.

“Well, if you’re not gonna talk, I know one way to fill the silence.” Crowley snapped his fingers and the gramophone started playing, _I’ve just seen a face I can’t forget the time or place where we just met…_

“Oh, no, not more of this, please,” said Aziraphale. “You know this sort of music is not my speed, Crowley.”

“We just sat down and watched a musical written within the decade,” Crowley pointed out. “Did it again earlier this month.”

“That was different,” Aziraphale said, even though he wasn’t entirely sure how.

“Whatever you say.” Crowley stretched his legs out on the sofa and folded his arms behind his head. “ _Fallen, yes I am fallen, and she keeps—_ ”

“Must you change the lyrics, my dear?” Aziraphale interrupted. He might not be very up-to-date on today’s music, but he was fairly certain that the Beatles had not written a song about demons, and he didn’t think humans usually used the word “fallen” by itself when talking about love.

Crowley glanced over at him, confused.

Aziraphale blinked back at him and then realized. “Oh! Fall _ing._ I thought you said—”

Crowley snorted and turned back to face the ceiling. “Well, it’s not wrong the other way around, is it?”

Aziraphale was glad Crowley wasn’t looking at him, and didn’t see the worry in his face. He wished Crowley wouldn’t make jokes like that. Crowley had been Fallen for so long that he had accepted it as part of who he was, and if Aziraphale was now going to have to dredge up the memory and make him regret it…

Well. This saving thing might be a whole lot more difficult than he had anticipated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When exactly thirty days had passed, almost to the hour, Aziraphale called Crowley with the prepared excuse of needing to learn more about youth culture so he could be a better influence on London’s youth. Crowley didn’t pick up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for Shadwell's accent! I am but a simple American and know little in the ways of the British Isles.
> 
> There's a moment of mild/implied transphobia in this chapter, because Shadwell. He gets over it quickly because I didn't want to write that.

Aziraphale managed to wait a full month until the next time he called Crowley, unless you counted Crowley’s follow-up after the assignment Aziraphale had made up for him to do, and their brief correspondence over a scheme Crowley wanted him to carry out in exchange, which he must have been joking about because he knew full well that Aziraphale physically could not fit into the air ducts of that building. At least, Aziraphale hoped he was joking, because he hadn’t done it.

When exactly thirty days had passed, almost to the hour, Aziraphale called Crowley with the prepared excuse of needing to learn more about youth culture so he could be a better influence on London’s youth. Crowley didn’t pick up.

He tried not to worry. Crowley was probably just out doing a little tempting, or having a drink at his favorite bar. Except he didn’t pick up when Aziraphale called in the evening, or either time he called the following day, or the day after that. But he knew how heavy of a sleeper Crowley could be. After a particularly exhausting assignment, Crowley would be dead to the world for up to a week. There was no reason for alarm.

Four days later, Crowley still wasn’t answering the telephone. That might be cause for alarm. Aziraphale hung up the receiver, drew a deep breath, and faced the reality that Crowley might not be in London.

He took a bus to Crowley’s flat to see if he could figure out where the demon had gone. If Crowley had left on assignment, he wouldn’t leave a note laying around where anyone could find it. He would leave in in his empty refrigerator, where only Aziraphale would know to look for it.

He found it right away: _Beatles on tour again. Going back to U.S., should be home between September and Halloween. –C_

Not terribly helpful. Of course Crowley wouldn’t miss Halloween if he could help it. It was his second-favorite time of year (His first-favorite being the week before Christmas when everyone panics and rushes to buy gifts in time). “Between September and Halloween” was a pretty big range of time, and the note didn’t even give Aziraphale a good idea of Crowley’s whereabouts. The U.S. was a big country.

Aziraphale found a pen in Crowley’s desk, turned over the note, and scribbled, _Need to talk. Urgent._ It wasn’t even really a lie, he told himself as he replaced the note in the refrigerator. It might give Crowley a fright, but surely he would understand if he knew the situation they were in. Not that Aziraphale was planning to explain it to him anytime soon.

In Crowley’s absence, Aziraphale opened the shop, chatted with his regular visitors when they came in (not regular customers, since he made sure not to have any of those), and spread a little more goodwill without the demon there to thwart him. Outside of his opening hours, he tried his best to prepare for whenever Crowley did come back, but there wasn’t much he could do. He’d already skimmed through his old reports on redemption (the ones since paper had been invented, anyway), and reread some relevant books written by humans, but hadn’t found anything useful there. Aziraphale didn’t put much stock in religious texts, since he had watched humans misprint and mistranslate them over and over and over again. He tried novels with redemption plotlines, and found that the characters were usually redeemed either through love, which Crowley wouldn’t have any problem with; through a dramatic sacrifice, which Aziraphale really hoped wouldn’t be necessary; or through repentance, which put him right back where he had started. And none of his books were especially relevant to demons.

The next quarterly meeting arrived before Crowley did. Aziraphale went up to heaven as expected, and delivered his report mostly on autopilot. His made-up numbers were slightly less impressive this time, which he blamed on the reappearance of the Opposition, even though Crowley had only been in town for about a month before leaving again. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back and rattled off meaningless goals and achievements and tried very hard not to look at Michael.

He could feel her watching him closely. She probably wanted to see whether he looked nervous, which of course he did. Aziraphale was always nervous in heaven.

Back at home, Aziraphale distracted himself by sorting his biographies by publishing date. While he was trying to estimate when some of his older copies had been written, the phone rang in the back room. Aziraphale dropped the volume he was holding on his foot, winced, and limped to go answer it.

“A. Z. Fell’s?” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt.

“Hello,” said an unfamiliar voice. “I’m looking for a book—well, obviously—and a friend recommended you to me…”

Aziraphale wrapped up the conversation as quickly as he could and hung up. It was already October. Crowley had to come back soon.

Two days later, the phone rang again. Aziraphale sighed and tried not to get his hopes up as he went over and picked up the reciever. “A.Z. Fell’s?”

“Aziraphale, it’s me,” Crowley said in a rush. It sounded like he had just woken up and something had thrown him into a panic while he was still sleepy and disoriented. “Got your—The—In the fridge—What happened?”

Aziraphale stifled the urge to exhale with audible relief. “Oh, I—I forgot I left that there. It’s been taken care of. Nothing to worry about anymore.” He frowned at the thought of how unpleasant that must have been to come home to. “I’m sorry to have startled you.”

Crowley took a few deep breaths on the other end of the line. “That’s good, then. Sorry ‘bout that, they didn’t give me much notice before telling me to follow the tour, and then I thought I’d hang around over there ‘till our quarterly check-in and hop out of hell from the London portal, instead of flying back.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re back,” said Aziraphale, before Crowley could ask what the note had been about. “How, er, how are the roaches?”

“ _Beatles._ They’re great. Everyone loves them, especially Downstairs.” He paused for a moment before admitting, “But y’know, I’m starting to think this whole beatlemania thing’s got just a bit, er, out of hand?”

“Is that so,” Aziraphale deadpanned. “I can’t imagine that happening with one of your schemes.”

“I barely did anything this time around, I swear. Humans are just bonkers.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“It’s true! Look, whatever you hear, I did _not_ start that rumor that they’re miracle workers.”

“That they’re what?”

“Not intentionally, anyway. Meant it as a joke.” Crowley cleared his throat. “How’s the shop?”

“Oh, you know.” Aziraphale was about to say the same old thing about how it was about the same as ever, and then maybe complain about a few customers while he was at it, but then he remembered why he had needed Crowley to call him in the first place. “I suppose you could…come and see for yourself?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Aziraphale rarely invited Crowley to the bookshop so directly, and even then it was usually under the pretense of discussing business, or at the end of some outing. He didn’t open with that. “Er, you sure?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale stepped on his own foot. Too forward. “I mean, not now, of course. I’m very busy right now, I couldn’t possibly have time for—” No, that was an overcorrection. “Perhaps next week? I, er—”

“You want to talk business, is that it?” Crowley interrupted, rescuing him from his own useless babbling.

“Yes,” he said, relieved. “Business, exactly.”

He did need to talk about business, sort of. More specifically, how Crowley had ended up in his current line of work. They had never talked about the Fall before. There were a lot of things like that which they didn’t talk about.

“I’m pretty busy all this month, actually,” said Crowley. “Halloween’s coming up, you know how it is. Unless it’s ‘urgent’?”

Aziraphale resented his tone. “I already apologized for the note.”

“Just teasing you, angel.”

In the five seconds before Aziraphale realized he had been silent for too long, he failed to think of a sufficiently urgent reason to interrupt Crowley’s Halloween planning. And if Crowley found out that he had made up an excuse, he might accuse Aziraphale of breaking the “stay out of each other’s way” part of the Arrangement. The last thing Aziraphale wanted to do was start an argument. “No, it’s not urgent,” he said with a tiny sigh. “I suppose I’ll see you after Halloween.”

He hung up and turned away from the phone, his hands already worrying at each other. It had been three months already, and he only had twenty-one left. Well, twenty, if he didn’t count October, which it didn’t look like he should.

Even if Crowley was too busy to meet with Aziraphale this month, he needed to keep a closer eye on the demon between meetings so he knew when Crowley was likely to be out of town. He considered tailing Crowley himself, but he’d probably be spotted and recognized immediately. This would call for some extra help. Perhaps it was time he put the Witchfinder Army to good use.

Aziraphale had been well-acquainted with the Witchfinder Army almost since its inception. That was not to say that he had an entirely positive relationship with them. His coworkers loved the Witchfinders (and they had their supporters Downstairs, too, for that matter), but burning witches had always seemed…unnecessary, to Aziraphale. Particularly when they started burning anyone with a decent understanding of medicine. They didn’t do much of that nowadays, thank heaven, which was why Aziraphale was currently on good terms with them. He even helped sponsor the organization, though that was mostly because Sandalphon was a big fan and would ask about them from time to time, and if they went bankrupt he’d probably blame Aziraphale for not doing anything about it.

With a sigh, Aziraphale pulled out his address book, flipped to the credentials of Witchfinder Sergeant Siftings, and dialed the number listed. “Who’s ‘is?” Sergeant Siftings answered in a gruff voice that Aziraphale suspected was not how he normally spoke.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, Fell,” said Siftings, with a mild enthusiasm that didn’t sound entirely genuine. “It’s a bit early for your annual dues.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “In fact, there’s something I hoped you and your men could help me with.”

“I understand. Where’s the witch?”

“Er—There’s not a witch, exactly.”

“Well, I’m not sure what we can do for you, then,” said Siftings. “What we do is find witches. It’s in the name.”

“It isn’t anything dangerous,” said Aziraphale. “Not even particularly difficult. I’m sure any one of your men could handle the job by himself.”

“Sorry, Fell, but we only deal with witches. Do you need assistance with a witch?”

With a sigh, Aziraphale rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I can, perhaps, provide additional compensation, since this is outside your organization’s usual jurisdiction.”

“Hm.” Siftings considered for a moment. “Perhaps we could spare a man. What’s the job?”

“There is a man—Er—” Crowley presented as male more often than not, but Aziraphale didn’t know what gender Crowley preferred at the moment, and he did switch fairly often. “There is a _person_ I would like to be kept under observation.”

“I read you loud and clear. I’ll have one of my men watch your target for any signs of witchery.”

“No—Observation _only.”_ Everyone he had ever dealt with in the Witchfinder Army had such a one-track mind. “I would like to be informed on their whereabouts. Nothing else.”

“Sure,” said Siftings, still in that knowing tone that made Aziraphale think he had not understood the situation. “And if we happen to catch this person performing witchcraft—”

“Your men are _not_ to harm them, under any circumstances, or I will—I will withdraw my sponsorship.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Er, because you see, I am _so_ certain this person is not a witch that harming them would not align with your organization’s mission statement, which I so strongly support.”

Siftings made a disappointed noise. “As you say, Fell. Observation only. As it happens, we’ve recently recruited a promising young lance corporal, recently promoted. Very resourceful. Shadwell, he calls himself. I’ll put him on the job.”

“Oh, thank you. And this Lance Corporal Shadwell—How might I reach him?”

“Hm, I don’t know if he has a telephone himself. If you need to get in touch with him, I know where to find him. But don’t worry about that, I’ll have him report back to you at regular intervals.”

“Very good,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps weekly?”

“Weekly reports it is,” Siftings agreed. “Now, who’s this target of yours?”

Lance Corporal Shadwell turned out to be much more enthusiastic about his job than Aziraphale had expected. He first reported back in less than a week, convinced that he had urgent news to share. “This Crowley’s a shifty sort,” he said in a low voice, as if he expected to be overheard from inside Sgt. Siftings’ office. “Up tae something, for certain.”

“Really?” Aziraphale sat forward in his desk chair. Hopefully Crowley had not been getting himself into trouble. “What has he done?”

“He…” Shadwell lowered his voice even further, so Aziraphale had to strain to catch the words. “…Wears sunglasses indoors.”

Aziraphale leaned back and rolled his eyes. “I hardly think that is noteworthy, Lance Corporal.”

“He wears them all time o’ the day or night,” Shadwell continued. “I’ve ne’er seen ‘im without ‘em.”

“Okay,” said Aziraphale, trying to humor him. “But that’s hardly abnormal.”

“Tis hardly normal, neither.”

“Plenty of blind people wear dark glasses.”

“Crowley’s blind?”

“Well, no—” Aziraphale let out a frustrated breath. “It’s normal for Crowley. Is there anything else?”

“Aye, in fact.” Shadwell lowered his voice again. “This Crowley. I’ve ne’er seen ‘im eat.”

“Is that so,” said Aziraphale flatly. “Thank you, Lance Corporal Shadwell. This has been most helpful.”

“All in a day’s work, sair.”

Aziraphale hung up. He had, perhaps, not completely thought through the implications of asking the Witchfinder Army to put a demon under observation. He would have been worried, if he didn’t think Crowley could completely hold his own against them. As long as they didn’t send the whole army after him at once, that was. Apparently, their forces were extremely vast.

The next two of Shadwell’s reports were much the same. Crowley had not done anything noteworthy, unless you counted loitering ominously, looking at a cat, or the general way that he walked. Most of his reports ended with Crowley getting in a car, and Shadwell losing track of him, which Aziraphale probably should have anticipated. There was not a driver in the world who could keep up with the Bentley.

In mid-October, Shadwell called four days early to give his report in an even lower and more urgent tone than usual. Aziraphale had to ask him to speak up so he could actually hear him. “This Crowley,” Shadwell repeated more audibly. “He wouldnae happen to have a, er, twin sister?”

“No. Why do you ask?” Aziraphale immediately realized why Shadwell had asked. It wasn’t really common in England for people to change their gender presentation as frequently as Crowley did. Should he explain it away? Invent a relative of Crowley’s who was in town? That would probably complicate things even more. Shadwell might decide that this new female Crowley had killed the male one, or something equally dramatic. “Yes, sometimes Crowley goes out as a man, and sometimes as a woman. Perhaps I should have informed you of that.” Though it wasn’t especially complicated. Humans did it sometimes, too, it just wasn’t the accepted norm for frustrating reasons.

“Hrm,” said Shadwell. “It’s nae exactly—”

“Is there a problem, Lance Corporal?” Aziraphale interrupted coldly before Shadwell could say something about it being unnatural, or worse. He channeled a bit of ethereal energy down the phone line to remind the young man what part of London Aziraphale lived and worked in, and the sort of reputation it had, and that he was the one paying Shadwell for this.

“No, tis nae a problem,” said the lance corporal, which was a good decision on his part. “But are ye sure he’s nae a witch?”

“I’m quite certain _she_ is not.”

“Ye’ve counted her nipples?”

“Counted her—Yes, Crowley has a perfectly normal and non-witchy number of nipples.”

“Only they’re tricky to find sometimes,” Shadwell pressed. “Unless ye poke ‘em all over with a pin—”

“There is to be _no pin-poking_.” Perhaps this had been a mistake. “Forgive me, Lance Corporal, but you appear to have misunderstood what I have hired you for. I want to know about Crowley’s comings and goings, and I wish to be informed if she gets into any trouble. I do not care to entertain any further accusations of witchcraft.”

“Aye, but we are the Witchfinder Army. We must be at all times looking to our prime directive.”

With a sigh, Aziraphale resisted the urge to put his head down on the desk. “Just be assured that Crowley is not a witch, and carry on.”

“Very well,” said Shadwell sullenly. “I’ll be on the lookout for any further suspicious activities.”

He hung up before Aziraphale could say that he thought Shadwell had grievously misunderstood what sort of activities he was being paid to watch for.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you like about Halloween?” Aziraphale asked. “Apart from it being ‘your side’s night,’ as you say.”
> 
> Crowley shrugged. “I dunno. Humans dressing up and pretending to be something else for a night? It’s fun.”
> 
> “I’m surprised you don’t dress up as a demon.”
> 
> “As a—Aziraphale. By definition, I am always dressed as a demon.”
> 
> Aziraphale chuckled and sipped his drink. “What else would you dress as?” he asked. “…An angel, perhaps?”
> 
> Crowley threw her head back and laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. “Heh, yeah,” she said, tipping upright once she had finally stopped. “Right.”

The rest of October passed as it usually did, except that Aziraphale was more keenly aware of Crowley’s comings and goings. Aziraphale bought a few miniature pumpkins to brighten up the shop, and then a few more, and by the end of the month there were almost enough gourds in the shop to challenge the supremacy of the books. More importantly, they helped crowd out potential customers.

Aziraphale spent his Halloween as he usually did, trying to keep people out of trouble. Since Crowley usually spent her Halloween trying to get people into trouble, their work occasionally overlapped. This turned out to be one of those years, and after bumping into each other, they somehow ended up sipping cocktails on a rooftop bar, watching passersby on their way to Halloween parties and judging their costumes based on how much effort seemed to have been put into them. “See that?” said Crowley, pointing at a young man walking past below them in a plastic black mask and a loose-fitting smock printed with a superhero outfit. “Store-bought rubbish. Zero stars out of five.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed. “Who…?”

“Batman. Fights crime.”

“Oh! Is he like that super man you told me about?”

Crowley shook her head. “Superman’s an alien. Batman’s just a guy, only he’s stinking rich.” She pointed out a woman in a form-fitting jumpsuit with plastic cat ears. “Oh, there’s catwoman number six. What do you wanna bet we can make it an even ten before the end of the night?”

“That’s starting to seem more and more likely.” Aziraphale sipped his drink and leaned back in his chair. He gestured with his glass at a woman dressed as a demon, with fake plastic horns. “Oh, is she a friend of yours, Crowley?”

Crowley laughed. “Must be new. I haven’t seen her around the office.”

“Your side seems to have picked up a lot of new hires tonight.” Aziraphale frowned. “You don’t see nearly as many angel costumes.”

Crowley folded her arms behind her head and propped her feet up on the table. “What can I say? It’s my side’s night.”

Not as much as it used to be. Halloween had changed a lot from the Samhain and All Saints’ Day celebrations of the past. A century ago, Crowley would have spent tonight hopping from summoning circle to summoning circle, and Aziraphale probably would have had to help her out of at least one of them. Both of them had warmed up to the holiday after that sort of thing became less common.

“What do you like about Halloween?” Aziraphale asked. “Apart from it being ‘your side’s night,’ as you say.”

Crowley shrugged. “I dunno. Humans dressing up and pretending to be something else for a night? It’s fun.”

“I’m surprised you don’t dress up as a demon.”

“As a—Aziraphale. By definition, I am always dressed as a demon.”

Aziraphale chuckled and sipped his drink. “What else would you dress as?” he asked. “…An angel, perhaps?”

Crowley threw her head back and laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. “Heh, yeah,” she said, tipping upright once she had finally stopped. “Right.”

Aziraphale pretended to laugh with her, even though he hadn’t entirely meant it as a joke.

“What would you dress as?” Crowley gestured at him with her glass. “Could be a librarian. Wouldn’t even need to change your clothes.”

“A lib—I am already a bookseller! That’s practically the same as you dressing up as a demon.”

“Nah, you don’t lend out your books to strangers.” Crowley grinned. “And what’s scarier than that, hm?”

Aziraphale shuddered to think how many careless hands touched the average library book. “I know you’re poking fun, but you have a point.”

Crowley sipper her drink thoughtfully. “I could go as a performance review. Those are always terrifying.”

“I think you should be a snake,” said Aziraphale.

“I _am_ a snake! What would that costume even look like? A tube? Just one long tube?”

“Oh, and a performance review costume makes sense?” He tipped his head and considered. “Perhaps you could bring back the medusa look.”

Crowley groaned. “Don’t remind me. I try something new with her hair and take up sculpting, and all of a sudden I’m a ‘hideous monster’.”

“To be fair, you did frighten a good number of them with that screaming snake-head trick.” Aziraphale hadn’t thought Crowley looked hideous at all, but he didn’t say that out loud. “Some good stories came out of it, at least.”

“Highly embellished stories.” Crowley took a drink, then tensed. “Bollocks—Sorry, Aziraphale, I’m getting—” She disappeared into thin air with a small _pop_.

Aziraphale waved a hand to miracle Crowley’s glass back onto the table before it hit the floor. He’d been hoping Crowley wouldn’t be inconvenienced by a summoning tonight. With a start, Aziraphale realized that this might be the last Halloween where Crowley was a demon.

What would it be like for her to celebrate a holiday that no longer belonged to her? Watching people go by in demon costumes and perhaps sharing Aziraphale’s frustration with the lack of angels? No longer watching the clock for the Witching Hour and hoping nobody summoned her?

She wouldn’t miss that part, at least. There were a lot of things about being a demon that Crowley was unlikely to miss. And even though she might lose some holidays, she would gain others, like Easter, and Hanukkah. Better ones, in Aziraphale’s opinion. She could even keep Christmas, since heaven and hell claimed equal ownership over that one in the 20th century.

The bartender stared in shock at the place where Crowley had just been, so Aziraphale made him forget that chair was ever occupied and pulled out his wallet to pay their tab. There wasn’t any point in staying here and drinking alone.

The phone was already ringing when Aziraphale got home. “Oh, goodness,” he muttered as he locked the door and hung up his coat. The ringing stopped before he made it to the back room, and started again a moment later. “For heaven’s sake.” he picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Ye’ll ne’er believe what I’ve just seen, Mr. Fell,” said a familiar, strongly-accented voice.

Aziraphale didn’t bother to stifle his impatient sigh. “Good evening, Lance Corporal Shadwell. What have you seen that was so urgent?”

“I was tailin’ yer target all evening—there’s always dark things afoot on All Hallow’s Eve—and I saw this Crowley going all o’er the city, talking with suspicious folk—”

“I’m sorry to say I’m not interested in hearing your suspicions, Lance Corporal.”

“—And she wound up drinking with some fellow on a rooftop. Looked like a real southern pansy type, if ye ken what I—”

“I understand your meaning quite well enough,” Aziraphale interrupted, before Shadwell could say anything he might end up regretting. “Is that all?”

“She _disappeared,_ I tell ye,” said Shadwell. “Right before my eyes! I’ve ne’er seen the like.”

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes. “Oh, good Lord.”

“That’s a witch, that is,” Shadwell went on. “I do recall ye noting that ye knew Crowley to not be a witch, but with such evidence on hand—”

“It does not sound to me as though you have anything ‘on hand,’” Aziraphale pointed out. “You simply think you saw something. Are you sure you had a clear viewing angle?”

“Clear as I stand before ye,” said Shadwell. “Figuratively speaking.”

“Right. Well, you must have misunderstood. Crowley fell out of her chair quite suddenly, that’s all. She must have left your field of vision.”

“That’s nae what I saw—”

“I believe I would know better than you would, seeing as I was with her at the time.”

There was a pause. “Ye’re the…?”

“The southern pansy, yes.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “I dinnae mean any offense.”

“I did not consider it offensive,” said Aziraphale. “Lance Corporal, did you see anything to suggest that Crowley has left town, or plans to do so soon?”

“Er…no.”

“Then did you see any evidence that Crowley is in trouble?”

“Nae unless ye count the obvious witchery,” he grumbled. “I will have no choice but to bring this information to my superiors, Mr. Fell.”

“Yes, please do that,” said Aziraphale. “Tell your Sergeant that you believe the person I explicitly told you not to harm is a witch. Make sure he understands how this may impact my generosity when it comes time for my annual contribution.”

“I dinnae hunt witches for the _money,_ ” Shadwell scoffed. “The Witchfinder Army is the one thin line o’ defense between—”

“Of course, of course,” Aziraphale interrupted. If Shadwell did not hunt witches for the money, Aziraphale wondered if he might be persuaded to _not_ hunt witches for _more_ money. On the other hand, it might be a bad idea to try to bribe a zealous witchfinder. “Crowley’s really not a witch,” he insisted. “Quite the opposite. She’s…very religious, in fact.”

“I’ve ne’er seen her near a church.”

“That’s just how religious she is, you see,” Aziraphale explained, hoping he sounded like he knew what he was talking about. “None of the churches she’s encountered meet her standards. So she’s really the last person on Earth who would be guilty of witchcraft.”

“Oh. I see. Apologies for accusing such a God-fearing woman. Er…person.”

Hopefully Shadwell would not realize that this didn’t explain Crowley’s sudden disappearance. “Was there anything else, Lance Corporal?”

“Nae at this time.”

“Very good,” said Aziraphale. “Then I will hear from you again a week from now. And next time, _please_ restrict your reports to the relevant information I have requested.” He hung up, rubbed his temples, and muttered, “Witchfinders.”

He craved a cup of tea, so he went into the kitchen to make some, and then found a book to read while he waited for morning. When sunlight started to peek through the shutters, Aziraphale set his book aside and picked up the phone to call Crowley.

“Mmmphhgngnn,” said Crowley, when she picked up.

“Good morning,” said Aziraphale with a cheeriness calculated to annoy the groggy demon. “I see you’ve made it out of that summoning circle safely.”

“‘N’gel?” Crowley groaned. “S’too early. Fuck off.”

“Well, that’s nice.”

“S’nice you called me at _six in th’ morning._ ”

“I simply wanted to check up,” Aziraphale huffed. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“S’need to be rude at _six in the—_ ”

“Very well, you’ve made your point, my dear. Go back to sleep.” Aziraphale hung up before Crowley could grumble more expletives at him. He probably ought to be glad Crowley had even bothered getting out of bed to answer the phone, although she had probably only picked up because she knew Aziraphale would show up at her door if she didn’t.

Perhaps he should have, a little later. Perhaps Crowley would have invited him in, and they might have gone to lunch. They could have spent the afternoon at the park, and maybe Aziraphale would have let Crowley talk him into seeing some other ridiculous American show, and then they could return to the bookshop for their usual drink, and when they were half a case in, Aziraphale might finally ask Crowley why he had Fallen.

It was too late for that now. Aziraphale had already used his excuse of checking up on Crowley, and it would be unwise for them to meet again so soon. Patience would be the key. He still had plenty of time.

He glanced at the calendar. Twenty months. It would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is rapidly becoming an excuse for the ineffable spouses to celebrate various holidays together. I swear plot things will happen again soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Theater tickets?” Crowley repeated, like he wasn’t sure if he had heard right. “Why the heaven did you get those? It’s Christmastime.” For them, that meant crammed schedules and back-to-back assignments.
> 
> “Yes, I know.” Aziraphale forced his voice to remain level. “I believe it is customary for people to spend the holidays with their—with their friends and family.” He had been going to say “loved ones,” but that was. Well. That might be too much.

As much as Aziraphale enjoyed having the bookshop decorated, he did get tired of tripping over pumpkins when he was trying to get to his shelves, and it was an awful lot of orange to look at all the time. Towards the middle of November, he decided that enough was enough, and turned the pumpkins into pies and loaves of spiced bread and containers of hearty soup. They couldn’t be frivolous miracles if they helped him spread goodwill and save souls. To that end, he enlisted Crowley to help him distribute the pumpkin foods to some of London’s homeless population.

One of Aziraphale’s favorite tactics for saving human souls was having them do good deeds, and it would probably help Crowley too, even if it wouldn’t get at the root cause of his damnation. The demon agreed to help after the usual amount of groaning and complaining, and soon they were driving around in the Bentley with the backseat full of pumpkin foods, miracling them to anyone who appeared to need them, because hell forbid Crowley actually get out of the car to interact with anyone he was kind to. He did get out of the car once with a pie in hand, which looked promising until he threw the pie into a man’s face. “What? I’m a demon,” he said as he got back into the car. The man he had pied was shouting something about calling the police, while a nearby woman doubled over in laughter. “I can’t just go ‘round handing out pies to the needy without stirring up a little trouble. ‘Sides, you’d have pied him, too, if you heard what he said to that woman.”

“What did he say?”

Crowley repeated it. Aziraphale blinked. “Well, I suppose nobody was injured,” he justified out loud. He could let it pass this one time.

When they ran out of pumpkin foodstuffs, Aziraphale invited Crowley back to the shop for tea, which really meant wine. Crowley was going to need to be extremely drunk before Aziraphale asked him about the Fall, and he suspected he was only going to get to ask once. He needed to wait for the right opening, or Crowley might close up on the subject forever.

A few glasses in, Crowley started rambling about pumpkins, and how they were brought over from the western hemisphere, which made Aziraphale complicit in colonization. Aziraphale countered that pumpkin pie was delicious, and anyway the pumpkins in question had been grown in England. Crowley, who hadn’t been listening, took off on a rant about European imperialism that didn’t leave Aziraphale much room to comfortably segue into a discussion of the Fall. So their November meeting accomplished nothing.

And then it was December, which was always hectic for both of them. Soon it would be half a year since Michael had called Aziraphale into her office, which was a quarter of the total time that he had been given, and he had absolutely nothing to show for it—

No, _no,_ he was going to get something done. Damn his schedule and Crowley’s, this was more important.

Crowley wasn’t home the first time Aziraphale called, or the second, but Shadwell had seen Crowley gluing coins to the sidewalk just two days prior, so he must still be in London. Aziraphale kept trying and got him on the fourth time. “Hello Crowley, it’s me,” he said a little too loudly, before the demon could do anything besides ask who it was. “I have theater tickets for Saturday night and I was hoping you might join me.”

That was definitely too forward, but Aziraphale didn’t care at the moment. Hopefully, the clearer he was, the less likely Crowley would be to say no.

“Theater tickets?” Crowley repeated, like he wasn’t sure if he had heard right. “Why the heaven did you get those? It’s Christmastime.” For them, that meant crammed schedules and back-to-back assignments.

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale forced his voice to remain level. “I believe it is customary for people to spend the holidays with their—with their friends and family.” He had been going to say “loved ones,” but that was. Well. That might be too much.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Are you sure it would be a good idea? We’ve been seeing a lot of each other recently.”

So Crowley had noticed. Ordinarily, yes, it would have been dangerous for them to meet so often, but in this case they would be in more danger otherwise. Aziraphale kneaded his forehead. He didn’t want to have to play this card, but… “It’s _Christmastime_ ,” he said in the pouty tone that Crowley always gave in to.

Crowley sighed loudly. “Alright, I think I can take one night off. But only one.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling as he always did when Crowley indulged him. “Thank you so much, my dear. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Saturday?”

“This coming Saturday, yes.”

“Alright. See you then.”

Aziraphale hung up and exhaled. So apparently this was how he was going to do things. Was it manipulative? It felt manipulative. He probably just felt guilty about hiding things from Crowley. He did want to go to the theater with Crowley, and he was looking forward to it, so he wasn’t lying. And it was all for Crowley’s own good. So Aziraphale had nothing to feel guilty about, even if he was sort of taking advantage of the demon’s feelings—

Except he wasn’t, not really. He was more…leveraging their existing relationship. Yes, that was it. Perhaps, in the Almighty’s ineffable plan, this was the purpose of their long friendship. It hadn’t been a mistake for Aziraphale to talk to a demon on the wall and develop a friendship and eventually deeper feelings for him, it had been a necessity to pave the way for Crowley’s soul to be saved. Everything had a purpose, and this was Aziraphale’s. So, really, he was doing exactly what he was supposed to.

Crowley picked him up from the bookshop on Saturday with a grin that it looked like he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. “Remind me why we’re doing this, angel?” he asked, once Aziraphale was in the Bentley.

“Because it’s Christmas,” Aziraphale said stubbornly, flushing.

“Right. No other reason? You’re not trying to needle me into spreading some goodwill on your behalf?”

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment. “Would you like another reason?”

“Nuh.” Crowley started the car and pulled away from the curb. “S’just not like you, angel.”

That was true. They rarely did this without an excuse. “Oh, perhaps it’s all this Christmas spirit in the air.”

Crowley snorted. “I think the cold’s affecting your brain.”

“You’re the one who can’t stand the cold, my dear.” He shot a glance at Crowley, whose coat did not look as warm as it should have been for this weather, and who was not even wearing a scarf. “Though I see it hasn’t induced you to dress sensibly.”

“It’s called _fashion,_ Aziraphale.”

“You’ll be shivering and complaining all through the play.”

“At least I’ll look good doing it.”

“In the dark theater? Who will see?”

Crowley frowned and ignored him.

“Careful on this turn—” The Bentley swerved, throwing Aziraphale against the window. He shot a glare at Crowley, even though Crowley had never been careful on any turn in his entire life, and Aziraphale shouldn’t have expected him to start anytime soon.

“What’re we seeing, anyway?” said Crowley, like he wasn’t currently hurtling down the road at death-defying speeds.

Aziraphale looked innocently out the window. “A Christmas Carol.”

Crowley slammed on the breaks. Aziraphale would have gone flying through the windshield if he hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt. “What?”

“Someone could have hit you, stopping so fast!”

Crowley shook his head. “I can’t watch that on a stage.”

“Why not? You enjoyed the book, as I recall—”

“I’m—allergic. To the book. Remember?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He knew for a fact that a certain well-worn and tear-stained copy of _A Christmas Carol_ had been sitting on Crowley’s shelf since Dickens was alive, but if Aziraphale ever drew attention to it, Crowley pretended he didn’t know how it got there or where all the water damage on the last few pages had come from. “Don’t worry, my dear. It will be far too dark in there for anyone to notice your allergies.”

Someone honked behind them. Crowley honked back louder and started moving again. “Fine, but we’re getting drunk after this,” he said. “On your wine. And you owe me a temptation.”

Aziraphale sighed. He should have expected Crowley to treat this like a trial he was being forced to endure. “Very well. Tomorrow I’ll, I don’t know, delay some packages somewhere. Would that do?”

“It’s not exactly diabolical, but I’ll take it.”

The rest of the drive was exactly as terrifying as usual, and Crowley predictably started shivering on the walk up to the theater. Aziraphale glanced at him and raised his eyebrows, to which Crowley shot back a glare and kept shivering. “Is there even a heater in this place,” he mumbled as they took their seats.

“Wear a scarf next time,” Aziraphale hissed at him. “You do this every winter.”

“Well, maybe it should stop being so cold.”

“Shall I take it up with the Almighty next time I see Her?”

“F’it’s not too much trouble.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and looked around to see if they were bothering anyone so that he could tell Crowley he was bothering someone. Someone behind them held up a program very quickly and conspicuously to cover his face. Aziraphale frowned.

Crowley followed his gaze before he could look away. “Oh, that guy? Don’t mind him, he’s been following me for months. Don’t think he means any harm.”

“Right,” Aziraphale muttered, making a mental note to have a chat with Lance Corporal Shadwell about what qualified as stealth.

The curtain rose, and for the next hour and a half Aziraphale sat back and watched Dickens acted out in front of him for the first time. He found that he preferred the book—dear Charlie had such a way with words—but the actors did quite a good job of bringing the characters to life. He particularly hated the Scrooge character, which of course was the intention. When the floor lights came on at intermission, he turned to Crowley to ask what he thought of the lead actor, only to find that Crowley was busy pretending he wasn’t tearing up. Without a word, Aziraphale summoned a handkerchief and handed it to him.

“Bloody allergies,” Crowley said, swiping at his eyes underneath his sunglasses.

“Tiny Tim hasn’t even shown up yet.”

“Fuck, don’t remind me.”

Should he apologize for the choice of play? He had thought it might be helpful to subtly remind Crowley that anyone could be redeemed, and he knew that Crowley already liked _A Christmas Carol._ Perhaps he should have realized that it might make him uncomfortable to watch such an emotional story with other people around. “We can go back to the bookshop, if your allergies are bothering you too much.”

Crowley sniffled and waved the hand holding the handkerchief. “Nah, s’fine. Gotta see how it turns out, now I’ve seen the first half.”

“But you’ve read the—”

“I don’t _read,_ Aziraphale, you know that.”

Aziraphale mumbled something about lying and television. He glanced back at Shadwell, who winked at him so conspicuously that he thought Crowley must have noticed, even though the demon was looking in the opposite direction

Halfway through the second act, Crowley sniffled. Aziraphale looked over to see tears visibly rolling down the demon’s cheeks. Crowley did his best to wipe them away with his fingertips and pressed a hand to his mouth.

Aziraphale summoned him another handkerchief, which Crowley accepted gratefully. “What happened to the first one I gave you?” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley shrugged. “Dropped it.”

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Crowley nodded towards the stage, where the Cratchit family was silently regarding Tiny Tim’s empty chair. “‘M’especially allergic to this scene.”

Aziraphale gave his arm one single sympathetic pat, which made Crowley almost jump out of his seat. “Oh—Sorry,” whispered Aziraphale.

“Nuh, that’s not—”

The woman next to Aziraphale shushed them, and they both quieted down to watch the play. Aziraphale’s eyes flicked toward Crowley again. It was dark in the theater. He could probably reach over and rest a hand on Crowley’s knee, and nobody would notice. Maybe Crowley would even move the handkerchief to his other hand and reach for Aziraphale’s, and they could sit there with their palms pressed together and their fingers entwined…

His hand twitched, and he returned his eyes to the stage. In a few months, when Crowley was an angel again, they could hold hands, and perhaps do more, with no need for the cover of a dark theater. Until then, initiating anything would only make Crowley more suspicious.

Crowley managed to stop crying before the play ended, and he clapped at least twice as loudly as anyone else in the room. Aziraphale smiled to himself in relief. At least the demon had enjoyed himself.

Within minutes (much fewer minutes than would have been the case if Crowley had followed traffic laws), they were back at the bookshop. Crowley gravitated to Aziraphale’s liquor cabinet and poked around to see what he had in stock while Aziraphale went to the kitchen to see if he had any eggnog. He didn’t, but he found a jug sitting in the fridge anyway. He warmed it in a pot on the stove, and then he and Crowley settled into their usual chair and sofa and drank it spiked with nutmeg and whisky while Crowley complained about the cold as if he had anything new to say about it after six millennia. “One year I asked Hastur to send me somewhere tropical from December through March,” he said sullenly. “And for decades after that it was _imperative_ that I freeze my arse off in the arctic circle every winter. Stopped asking after that.”

“I know, dear.” For once, Aziraphale was glad Crowley had stayed in London to shiver and complain through the winter. “Although Nuuk isn’t quite in the arctic circle…”

“Y’know how many people there are to tempt in Greenland?” Crowley asked. “Not bloody many. Course, Hastur conveniently missed all my calls whenever I tried to contact him and tell him there were more souls for us elsewhere.” He paused to take a sip of eggnog. “Know where my next assignment was?”

“Svalbard?”

“Bloody _Sval_ —Oh, you’ve heard that one.”

He had, but Crowley told it so well that it still made him laugh every time. “Refresh my memory,” he said, trying not to snicker. “Wasn’t there a walrus involved?”

“More walruses than you could count in Svalbard.” Crowley finished off his eggnog. “More’n I could, anyway. Is there more of this?”

“Give it here, I’ll get us some more.” Aziraphale took their mugs back into the kitchen to refill them, “accidentally” splashed a bit too much whisky into Crowley’s, and returned. “So the walrus—”

“Walrus _es,_ Crowley corrected. “There were three of ‘em. Well, there were a lot more, but it was three that attacked me. One ate my hat.”

“I still find it hard to believe that you actually wore a hat.”

“It was _cold!_ London’s balmy by comparison. I thought I’d never feel warm again. Hell warms you up pretty quick, though.” He quaffed the eggnog. “Oof. You put some more kick into it this time, huh?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “It is Christmas.”

“S’a good all-purpose excuse.” He siped a little more and gestured at Aziraphale with the mug. “What about you, what was your coldest assignment?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks puffed out as he considered. “Pffff, oh, I don’t know. Probably that Viking village they sent me to in the 1200s.”

“I forgot about that!” Crowley said, delighted. “The one where they set you up as a deity?”

“That was an accident! But, no, that was in pre-Christian Denmark. I was thinking of another time in Sweden. I was supposed to help some missionaries.” His brow furrowed as he sipped the eggnog. “Even after they converted, they seemed a bit confused. One chieftain thought he’d get into heaven because he had built such a lovely bridge. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that wasn’t how it worked.”

They swapped stories about various northern adventures and drank eggnog until it became too much bother to mix in the whiskey and spices, at which point they switched to wine. Crowley laughed so hard at something Aziraphale said that he fell off the sofa, and then he forgot to get up and stayed on the floor for quite some time. Crowley put on some Christmas rock-and-roll records, because apparently that was something that humans had seen fit to make, and there was a certain amount of terrible singing that Aziraphale hoped he was drunk enough to forget. At some point they swapped places, so Aziraphale was slumped back in the sofa while Crowley sprawled across the armchair like it was much larger. Even though he was smaller than Aziraphale, he couldn’t fit in the chair without his limbs spilling out in every direction.

They reminisced about other winter holidays that they had celebrated over the centuries, Saturnalia and Yule one particular Yalda night that he and Crowley had spent together back in old Persia. They had gotten almost as drunk as they were now.

“Y’know one thing y’notice,” Crowley slurred, “When they keep sending you up.” He pointed up. “I mean, not up _,_ but _up._ ”

“North?” Aziraphale supplied.

“S’that one,” said Crowley pointing at him. “It’s that, the more up you go—” He pointed up again. “Th’ more alcohol they put in their alcohol.”

“The more—” Aziraphale frowned. “How d’you mean?”

“Mhm.” Crowley nodded sagely and drank his wine. “‘Cause it’s cold.”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale drank some more. He had been sobering up in increments as he drank, so he was less inebriated than Crowley, but not by much.

“In some places, I guess. Not others.” Crowley glared into his glass. “ _Hastur._ ‘Go get us some Inuit souls, Crowley,’” he said in a gruff imitation of Hastur’s voice. “S’too cold for a snake in Canana…nanda.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Though, ‘f you ask me—”

“Didn’t.”

“—I’d say you should be glad of the experience.” Aziraphale pointed at the ceiling. “They’ve got those lights there.”

“‘Course they’ve got lights. Fire, and stuff.”

“No, no.” Aziraphale waved up at the ceiling, frustrated. “The nice big ones, in the sky. The, ah…north…northern lights. I haven’t seen them even once, you know.”

“Ohh, yeah, those.” Crowley shrugged. “Pff. They’re nice when it’s been dark for a week, I guess. Gives you something to look at.”

“Just nice?”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a flat look, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way his eyes struggled to focus. “‘Ziraphale. I’ve had nebulae and ssstarstuff wrapped ‘round my hands before.” He wiggled his fingers in the air to illustrate the point. “So, yeah. Nice.”

So they had reached the point of drunkenness where Crowley willingly mentioned his past work as an angel. Aziraphale looked into his wine and tried to remember why that was important. “S’cold in space too, I thought,” he said, to buy some more time.

“Yeah. Was before I was a snake, though.”

Oh, _before._ It came back to him like a boomerang to the head. “Crowley?”

“Mm?”

He sobered up a little bit, to be sure he would remember Crowley’s answer, and asked, “Why did you Fall?”

The silence that fell was deafening. Aziraphale’s old grandfather clock was ticking in some unseen corner. Crowley’s sunglasses were off, but he was looking into his wine glass at an angle that made it difficult to see his expression. He hadn’t moved, but his limbs were tense where they had been slack a moment ago. Aziraphale held his breath, his heart beating out a march in his head, as he waited for Crowley to either answer, or…not.

When Aziraphale became convinced that Crowley was never going to speak, the demon finally exhaled. “Hell if I know,” he said quietly, and then downed half of his remaining wine.

Aziraphale blinked. He could usually tell when Crowley was lying, and he seemed to be telling the truth. But that was impossible. “You don’t know?”

He shrugged. “S’not like Mum sat us all down to explain after it happened. I didn’t really Fall, anyway,” he added, shifting his position on the armchair. “Was more of a…casual amble, in a sort of vertical…”

“Yes, you ‘sauntered vaguely downwards,’ I know.” Crowley was already putting up his walls of defensive sarcasm, and Aziraphale doubted he would get a more honest answer out of him now. But how could he possibly not know why he had Fallen? He couldn’t have just stumbled into something so significant. That couldn’t be how it worked.

“You’ve got, uh, hands, there, angel. Something wrong?”

Aziraphale looked down at his hands, which had been twisting together anxiously. Er…”

Crowley looked at him, tilting his head wobbily. “Oh, I get it. S’getting late.”

“Is it?” Crowley had said that he had a lot of work to do, and Aziraphale didn’t want to keep him. Even if they were having a lovely time, and it was only—he looked at the clock and winced—four-thirty in the morning. “Oh dear. I suppose it is.”

“Right.” Crowley screwed up his face as he drove the alcohol out of his body. It took almost two full minutes. Grimacing, he opened his eyes and blinked around. “Why’m I in your chair?”

“I can’t remember.” Aziraphale sobered up the rest of the way. He still couldn’t remember.

Crowley got off the chair with minimal flailing of limbs and went to the door to get his coat. “This was fun, angel,” he said, shrugging it on. “Thanks for—hang on.” He frowned down at his coat and patted himself down. “You’ve added a layer.”

“Well, you kept complaining of how cold you were.”

Crowley smoothed down the coat. His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “It’s too puffy now,” he said. “Not my look at all.”

“You can change it back, if it’s such a bother.”

“Hmf, nah, not now. It’s dark out. Not like anyone will see me walking around like this.” He glanced at Aziraphale as he put his shades on. “Thanks for the tickets, Aziraphale. And for, y’know. Asking.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He didn’t know whether Crowley would be expecting him to be as frank moving forward as he had been when he invited Crowley to the play. He didn’t know whether he wanted to be. “I enjoyed myself, as well. Take care of yourself.”

Crowley left, and Aziraphale shut the door behind him with a sinking feeling. His whole plan had hinged on finding out why Crowley had Fallen. If Crowley didn’t even know himself, Aziraphale didn’t know how to help him repent.

He didn’t know how to save Crowley.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael's eyes bored into Aziraphale. “You’re far too modest, Aziraphale. Why haven’t you officially reported on your newest initiative?”
> 
> Aziraphale’s heart stopped. “M-my, ah.”
> 
> “The one we discussed in July,” Michael continued pleasantly. “I was surprised you did not mention it in your last quarterly.”
> 
> “A new initiative?” Gabriel turned from Michael to Aziraphale with a smile. “Sounds promising. Fill us in, Aziraphale.”

“Your numbers are down from last quarter, Aziraphale. And the quarter before that.”

Aziraphale blinked at Gabriel innocently. He couldn’t remember what numbers he had reported last quarter. Or what numbers he had said just now, for that matter. “Oh, are they?”

“I agree,” said Uriel. “You’re slipping.”

“And, recently, you’ve seemed a little…” Gabriel tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“Unmotivated?” Sandalphon suggested.

Gabriel pointed at him. “I was gonna say ‘down in the dumps,’ but yes. Maybe a little motivational seminar—”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale blurted out. He swallowed a shudder and tried to smile. “I mean, no, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ve just been feeling a bit…harried, ever since the Opposition returned to London.” It was the same excuse he had given last time, but maybe they wouldn’t notice.

Uriel noticed. Her eyes narrowed. “That was in July.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked down to his feet, then somewhere off into heaven’s whiteness, then to the Ziggurat outside the window in the opposite direction. “Yes, well—”

“Perhaps our principality has been otherwise occupied,” Michael interrupted. It was the first time she had spoken all meeting. Her eyes bored into Aziraphale. “You’re far too modest, Aziraphale. Why haven’t you officially reported on your newest initiative?”

Aziraphale’s heart stopped. “M-my, ah.”

“The one we discussed in July,” Michael continued pleasantly. “I was surprised you did not mention it in your last quarterly.”

“A new initiative?” Gabriel turned from Michael to Aziraphale with a smile. “Sounds promising. Fill us in, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s instincts screamed for him to run, but the gazes of the archangels pinned him to the spot. Behind his back, his palms were slick with sweat. It was bad enough that Michael knew about his acquaintance with Crowley, but all of them did—

She was still looking at him expectantly. If he didn’t say something soon, she would speak for him, and the last thing he needed was for her to have more control over the story. He already had an excuse. He was doing nothing wrong. “Yes. New initiative.” His voice sounded faint in his ears. He cleared his throat. “I, ah, I thought it might be helpful for us if we could…add to our ranks.”

The archangels stared back at him blankly. Sandalphon was already starting to look impatient.

“I mean, the Almighty isn’t going to make any more angels, obviously,” Aziraphale went on, with a nervous laugh. “But there are some that have, er, lost their way, and could perhaps be set back on the right…”

“Aziraphale, what are you talking about?” Uriel interrupted.

Aziraphale jumped and blurted out, “There is a demon that I believe can be brought back to the light.”

The archangels, except for Michael, goggled at him. Gabriel pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment, and then looked up at Aziraphale again. “Care to run that by us one more time?”

“Yes, I know it sounds far-fetched.” Aziraphale hoped he didn’t sound as miserable as he felt. “But I’ve had quite a bit of time to observe him. I truly believe it is possible.” He gathered his courage and took a tiny step forward. “I’ve already made headway, in fact. Just two months ago the demon gave away food to the poor.”

Sandalphon grimaced. “Are you sure the food wasn’t poisoned?”

“No, it was very wholesome.” Aziraphale took half a step back and glanced at Michael. They could easily call him a liar and a traitor and toss him out of heaven right now. But Michael had given him two years.

“It is unprecedented,” said Gabriel. “A demon has never Risen back to the status of an angel.”

“It’s impossible,” said Sandalphon. “A stupid idea.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat to remind them he was there. “But if it was possible,” he said, “wouldn’t it be worth a try?”

They looked at each other. “We could tip the balance in our favor,” said Uriel. “Stealing from their ranks.”

Gabriel nodded. “Michael, you approved this?”

“Yes. I was incredulous as well, when I heard the idea. But Aziraphale has shown…remarkable tenacity, just for trying.”

“That’s true,” said Gabriel. “It’s a revolutionary idea.”

“But why waste time on it, instead of saving humans?” said Sandalphon. “When it turns out it can’t be done—”

“We discussed that possibility as well,” said Michael. “Aziraphale believes he can complete this endeavor by July of 1967, if such a thing is indeed possible. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, trying to sound confident.

“And if it cannot be done by then, there is no need to waste further resources on the demon. He can be eliminated.” Michael nodded towards Aziraphale. “I have approved the issuance of one vial of holy water for that purpose.”

“Why not destroy the demon now?” asked Sandalphon.

“Aren’t you listening?” Uriel hissed. “We could have the chance to turn one.”

“Do we even want it back?”

Gabriel clapped his hands to interrupt the argument. “Since Aziraphale has already spent time and resources on this, I see no harm in letting him continue, if we timebox it at eighteen months from now. If we’re all in agreement…?”

Michael and Uriel nodded. After a moment of scowling, Sandalphon did as well.

Aziraphale blinked hard. “I can continue?”

“For now, sure,” said Gabriel. “I wish you’d told us about this sooner, Aziraphale. It sounds fascinating.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale laughed nervously. Uriel and Sandalphon appeared to also be wondering why he hadn’t mentioned it sooner. “It sounds so outlandish. I’m sure you understand why I was reluctant to bring it before you.”

“Not at all!” Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder. “Great work, Aziraphale. Consider this new project your priority for the next year and a half. Oh, and if this demon—What was its name?”

Aziraphale swallowed. He didn’t like the idea of the archangels knowing Crowley’s name. “Anthony.”

“Not a very demonic name,” mumbled Sandalphon.

Uriel shrugged. “They all picked weird names after the Fall.”

Aziraphale glanced at Michael. She didn’t react. Hopefully her “reliable source” had never mentioned Crowley’s name. She had only ever referred to him as “the Opposition,” and to any proper angel, a demon was a demon.

“If Anthony gives you any trouble, feel free to kill him before the deadline,” said Gabriel. “Even if you can’t bring him to our side, you can at least stop him working for theirs, right?”

He was grinning like that was supposed to be funny. Aziraphale tried to force a laugh. “Quite.”

“Well, I think that about wraps up our meeting. We’ll see you in three months.”

“Ah—Yes. Thank you.” Aziraphale smiled politely and turned to leave.

He drew a deep breath as he made his way to the exit and let it out slowly. He had all the archangels’ approval to continue working with Crowley. He should be glad. Wasn’t that a good thing?

It also meant meant that more of his superiors knew about his acquaintance with a demon. Nobody was ever supposed to find out. If Michael hadn’t found those photographs—What was she even doing in the Earth observation files? Nobody checked those. There was so much information stored in heaven’s files it had ceased being useful.

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. Heaven had kept an abundance of records for as long as he could remember. Somewhere in there were transcripts of roughly twenty-four thousand quarterly reports Aziraphale had made over the years, and the reports that other angels had made, and notes of every promotion and demotion and change in management that had occurred since the beginning of time.

Aziraphale didn’t know why Crowley had Fallen. Even Crowley didn’t know why he had Fallen. But someone had to, which meant that information was almost certainly stored somewhere in heaven’s infinite filing system.

Heaven’s records department wasn’t a room, exactly. Aziraphale might have called it a hallway, except that there were no walls, just one long row of filing cabinets stretching out into eternity, and a row of desks on the other side. Somehow, they had even managed to make the oversaturated records department as clean and sterile as everything else up here. Aziraphale put on a smile as he walked up to the desk at the front. “Hello.”

The angel sitting there looked at Aziraphale without smiling. “Welcome to the celestial records department. What can I help you with?”

“Yes, I, um—I’m looking for some records.” Aziraphale glanced at the infinite row of filing cabinets and realized that was probably obvious. “Very old records,” he clarified. “The, ah, the hierarchy of angels, in full. If you have it. Please.”

The angel raised one copper eyebrow. “Is there a particular year you would like?”

There hadn’t been years to keep track of during the time period Aziraphale was aiming for. “The oldest you have, please.”

The angel nodded. “Wait here.” They disappeared.

Aziraphale rocked back and forth on his heels while he waited. An angel at one of the desks glanced up at him from whatever form she was filling out. He gave a cheery smile and a nod, which she did not return.

He wasn’t entirely sure how helpful it would be, but a roster of all the angels seemed like a good place to start. Finding Crowley’s old name would be the hard part. Nobody had kept track of which Fallen angels had become which demons, which meant that he would need to do some deduction. He could start with the names of the starmakers who had Fallen and narrow it down from there. Then all he would need to do was ask for the transcript of Crowley’s trial. It would have been easier if Crowley had paid enough attention at his own trial to remember what the charges were, but apparently he had always been easily distracted.

The front desk angel blinked back into existence and held out a small paper card. “Here you are. The complete hierarchy of heaven, year undefined.”

Aziraphale reached forward to take the card. “Are you sure? It looks a little small for—Oh, I see.” The angel had handed him a library catalog card, filled out in completely indecipherable handwriting. “Where exactly—”

When he looked back up, the angel was gone. So was the desk and the filing cabinets. In their place, a row of grey-white slabs stretched into the distance behind and in front of him, each taller than Aziraphale, divided into sections and etched with letters so old that Aziraphale couldn’t remember how to read them. He walked up to the slab directly to his left which wasn’t stone, as he had thought, but solid firmament. To his relief, the ancient letters rearranged themselves into English as he approached. _Celestial hierarchy._ The fact that there was no number next to the title seemed promising. Aziraphale scanned the top of the list for Lucifer’s name, just to make sure.

It wasn’t there.

Instead, at the top of the list, there was a rectangular spot about the same size as the other names where the firmament appeared to have melted and distorted and rendered the writing there completely unreadable. Aziraphale’s heart sank. As he scanned the rest of the list, he recognized the Metatron, and Michael, and a few of the other seraphim and archangels, but about half the names were melted off just like the top one was.

“Um, pardon me,” he said, turning to the nearest desk directly behind him. He pointed to the firmament slab. “This record appears to be incomplete.”

The angel jumped when Aziraphale spoke. “Nobody ever comes back here.”

“Yes, well, I did.” Aziraphale gestured again to the slab. “Has someone, er, vandalized the record?”

The angel blinked at him a few times. “The names of the Fallen have all burned away.”

Aziraphale hadn’t thought that was literal. “Oh. Of course.”

“Is there anything else I can help you find?”

Aziraphale swallowed. He didn’t want to tell anyone what he was really looking for, but it didn’t look like this fellow got many visitors, which meant there weren’t many people he could tell. “I’m looking for, er, information about the Fallen, actually,” he said. “Well, one in particular. Do you know of any way I might find a demon’s former name?”

The angel stared at him blankly. “The names of the Fallen have all burned away.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He sighed “Do you have any information about the Rebellion, and what each of the Fallen was cast out for, perhaps?”

“The Fallen were punished for their disobedience.”

“Yes, we all know that. Only, I was hoping for more specifics.”

“We have transcripts of the old trials.” The angel pointed further up the row of stone tablets. “You’ll find them if you walk that way.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I don’t suppose they have names on them, though?”

“The names of the Fallen have all burned away.”

Of course. Perhaps he could deduce which transcript was Crowley’s trial from context? He’d just have to read ten million trial transcripts. And then guess which one was relevant using minimal information. That would take more than his remaining eighteen months.

“Thank you for your help,” Aziraphale said. “Could you tell me how to get out of here?”

The angel pointed ahead of him, the way that all the desks were facing. “The exit is that way.”

“Yes, I surmised. Isn’t there a faster way to get there?”

“Oh, yes.” The angel reached under his desk and pulled out a bicycle which definitely shouldn’t have fit under there. “Bring it back when you’re done, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Bring it back,” Aziraphale repeated, looking off to where the row of firmament slabs vanished into the distance and then back to the angel at the desk. “When I’m done…leaving?”

“Please,” said the angel. “We’re only issued the one.”

Aziraphale sighed. “No thank you. I’ll…I’ll walk.”

He turned and started making his way back to the entrance, wishing he’d never had this stupid idea. He couldn’t even see where the row of slabs evolved into filing cabinets, much less where it ended. Considering how long heaven had been storing records, you would think they would have found a more space-efficient way to do it than to put it all in one single row, organized by timestamp and nothing else. Although, since there was infinite space in heaven, he supposed there was no real need for efficiency. They probably put it in one row so that one side of the department could be open and unobstructed. Heaven was fond of open space.

It made Aziraphale feel exposed and vulnerable. He missed his bookshop, with all its corners and cozy nooks to tuck himself into. At least he could get out of there quickly when he needed to.

He walked until his feet were sore, and the entrance did not appear to get any closer. After what felt like days, the firmament slabs were replaced with rough-hewn stone with numbers etched at the top to mark the year. Another eternity later, the stone became interspersed with shelves stacked with clay tablets. Hopefully, as the methods of storing writing got more compact, it would take less time for Aziraphale to walk from one century to the next. What actually happened was that, as time went on and humans proliferated across the globe, there was more and more to document.

When he couldn’t feel his legs anymore, he sat down against one of the shelves to take a break. One of the angels sitting at the desks looked over at him curiously. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be working?”

“I am _trying,_ ” said Aziraphale, waving along the interminable row of shelves, “to leave this ridiculous department.”

The angel looked at him for a long moment. “On foot?”

“If there is a faster way, please enlighten me.”

She looked at him like she thought he might be stupid. “You’re an angel. You know where the entrance is. Just go there.”

He frowned, and then looked away in embarrassment as he understood. He had been on Earth so long that he forgot sometimes that he could be anywhere he wanted in the blink of an eye. “Oh—Oh. Yes, right.” With a snap of his fingers, he returned to the entrance. Then why the hell had that other angel offered to lend him a bicycle? As a joke? He didn’t know what passed for humor in heaven anymore, either.

The angel at the front desk glanced at him. “Welcome to the celestial records department. What can I—”

“Nothing, thank you.” Aziraphale handed back the catalog card and left. This had been a complete waste of time. His legs were killing him, he felt humiliated, and he hadn’t found anything to help him save Crowley. And all the archangels now knew that he was trying to save the soul of a demon. They would ask him about it at every report from now on. He prayed that Sandalphon didn’t get impatient, and decide to end his assignment early.

It was something of a shock when he stepped out onto London’s bustling streets, after so long in the near-silent records department. How long had he even been there? He walked along the street until he found a newspaper stand, and almost wailed when he saw the date. Over a week had passed. It would have been longer if nobody had pointed out to him that he could instantly leave. Of all the things to keep him from saving Crowley, he had not anticipated getting trapped in heaven’s filing system.

At least he was home now. He could go back to the bookshop and make himself some tea and forget all about this embarrassing episode. He’d find Crowley’s former name some other way. The angels still remembered their Fallen brothers and sisters. Maybe he could visit the starmaking department, and interview Crowley’s former colleagues. Maybe one of the archangels could help him, now that he had their support. If nothing else, the Almighty had to know why Crowley had Fallen. Even if She hadn’t talked to anyone but the Metatron in millennia, and was probably far too busy to be bothered with the soul of one demon that all of the rest of heaven had already given up on. She would—she would be on Aziraphale’s side, though, right? The parable of the lost lamb, and all that.

Maybe it wasn’t the best plan to argue with the Almighty by quoting Her son’s words out of context. What if She disagreed? She wouldn’t, of course, because Aziraphale was doing the right thing, but maybe he wouldn’t escalate the issue that far, just in case. That could be a last resort.

He could still find a way. He just needed to think a little harder and work at the problem some more. If he couldn’t come up with anything by himself, he could request help now that his “project” had been approved. He had more resources. This was a good thing. It would be fine.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sneezes started when Aziraphale got home, loud foundation-shaking sneezes that echoed around the bookshop and shook dust from the shelves. It was possible that he’d let the stress build up more than he was admitting to himself. Now, the only thing to do was treat the symptoms and hope it got better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating has been updated because there's a lot of angst on the way, I'm sorry you guys. Also because Crowley's been known to use some language. I probably should have made this T from the beginning, so that's on me.

Most of Aziraphale’s ideas (he couldn’t pretend any of them were “plans”) involved returning to heaven, but he needed to recuperate from his time trapped in the records department before he faced that empty blankness again. He could spend those weeks on Earth brainstorming new ideas and working out how to execute the ones he had, so it wouldn’t even be wasted time. Perhaps he would wait until the next quarterly meeting in April. Three months wasn’t so long, was it?

He didn’t see Crowley much, since the demon had noticed and pointed out how often they were meeting, but Shadwell’s reports kept him updated. Crowley didn’t seem to be getting into anything too nefarious. Shadwell claimed that he had burned down a building, but closer questioning revealed that Crowley had simply been seen exiting a building where a small kitchen fire took place two weeks later. Shadwell had also seen some scary-looking men grab Crowley off the street and stuff him into an unmarked van, to which Aziraphale said, “Poor kidnappers,” and poured himself some more tea. Sure enough, Crowley’s Bentley was seen terrorizing the streets again the next day.

A month passed, and Aziraphale didn’t get any closer to formulating a plan. But he kept himself plenty busy, so it would be fine if he waited until the April meeting to return to heaven and try some of his ideas. He was still thinking about them. In fact, he thought about them almost constantly.

It was possible that he thought about them an unhealthy amount.

He was on his way to pick up some lunch when the first sniffles came. He wiped his nose and didn’t think anything of it, until he sniffled again a few moments later, and had to manifest a handkerchief to keep his nose clean. “Oh dear,” he muttered, walking faster. Angels did not get sick in the human way, but these corporations were still susceptible to stress. Aziraphale had worried himself into flu symptoms and indigestion several times before. Twice, he had even given himself a fever.

Not that that would happen this time. It was just a little sniffle. Maybe he’d gotten himself a little worked up, but it was nothing to be worried about. He’d just get his lunch, go home, and have a nice cup of tea to clear his sinuses.

The sneezes started when he got home, loud foundation-shaking sneezes that echoed around the bookshop and shook dust from the shelves. It was possible that he’d let the stress build up more than he was admitting to himself. Now, the only thing to do was treat the symptoms and hope it got better.

Instead, it got worse. The sniffles and sneezing turned into a near-constant runny nose, and later that night a tickle started in his throat that became a wet cough by the next day. His head felt heavy, and sometimes it hurt, and other times he felt too out of it to do anything other than sit on the sofa with some tea and a book. Sometimes he didn’t even have the energy to do that. Humans took naps when they were sick, so Aziraphale tried that, and woke up feeling like he was trying to use someone else’s head. He couldn’t tell if the grogginess was another symptom, or an aftereffect of sleeping, but he didn’t like it. Why was this happening? Yes, he was worried about his assignment with Crowley, but that had been going on for over half a year. Why was he getting sick _now?_

Maybe because he had no real plan, and all his ideas involved talking to other angels, which was high on the list of his least favorite activities. Or maybe because he had made no progress for over a month, and wasn’t planning to until April. Or maybe it had just taken this long to build up. It could be any number of things.

The phone rang one day while he was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed trying to rest without sleeping. Blinking, he got up and answered it.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” said the best voice in the world. “How’s it going? Listen, I’ve got a bit of a problem I was hoping you could help with.”

“Problem?” Aziraphale repeated. Feeling a sneeze coming on, he held the phone away from himself and buried his nose in his upper arm. “— _Choo_. ‘F course I’ll help, my dear. What’s the trouble?” he asked into the phone.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Did you just sneeze?”

Aziraphale wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “No.”

“Your voice sounds odd, too,” said Crowley. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“I’ve never felt better,” Aziraphale said, and sniffled.

“Okay,” said Crowley. “So if I come by the shop right now, I won’t find you under a blanket in the back room surrounded by tissues, with your nose all red and snotty?”

“I—I’m just a bit under the weather, that’s all.” Aziraphale sneezed again. It was a big one this time. The pressure changed in his eardrums. “Don’t worry about me. It’s just a little cold, it will pass.”

“Angels don’t get normal colds,” said Crowley. “When did this start?”

“Er—Just yesterday,” Aziraphale lied. He’d had symptoms for over a week. “What did you need help with?”

“Forget about that. Drink some tea and take a nap, and we’ll talk about it when you’re feeling better.”

“Oh, that’s—Yes, that would be best, I think.” Aziraphale sniffed and wiped his nose again. “I’ll see you soon, then.”

Crowley had suggested a nap, but it hadn’t helped the first time, so Aziraphale didn’t see the point in trying again. His head hurt when he opened his eyes, though, so he kept them closed for a few hours, but didn’t sleep. If he got into the habit of sleeping, how was he going to have the time to save Crowley? His friend was counting on him. He didn’t have time to waste lying around on a sofa feeling awful.

Not that he had been getting anything done, anyway. He had spent enough time away from heaven that he felt ready to go back, but once he was there he’d have to ask Michael for help. She would probably direct him to someone else, and then he would have to talk to unfamiliar angels, and God only knew whether he’d discover anything useful or if it would be yet another dead end—

The bottle of holy water was in the room with him, standing on the table and sparkling innocently in the electric lighting. It was bigger than he remembered. There was at least a gallon of it, then two gallons. It was massive, it towered over him, and it looked almost like Michael—

A bell startled him awake. He was on the sofa, tangled under a quilt, and the holy water was nowhere in sight. Just a dream.

“You back here, angel? Oh, hell.” Crowley came through the doorway to the back room and stopped when she saw Aziraphale on the sofa. “You look awful.”

“Oh, darling, you’re here.” Aziraphale beamed at Crowley. It had been too long since he’d seen her. It had always been too long.

“Ngk. Well, you’re definitely feverish,” said Crowley, stepping inside.

Aziraphale frowned and pulled himself upright. “How can you tell? You didn’t even—” Oh. He couldn’t remember ever calling Crowley _darling_ before, at least not out loud. He felt his own forehead. “I don’t feel feverish.”

“That’s ‘cause your hand also has a fever. Plus, you’re shivering.”

Was he? Aziraphale looked down at himself. “That’s new.”

Crowley moved behind him, towards the kitchen. “Stay there. I’ll make some tea.”

“Wait—” Aziraphale made a desperate grab for her sleeve. He missed, but Crowley stopped and looked at him anyway. “Don’t—don’t go in there.”

Crowley half-smiled like she couldn’t tell if this was a joke. “What?”

The giant bottle of holy water from Aziraphale’s dream was still freshly-imprinted on his mind. “Don’t to looking through my cabinets,” he begged. “Please, Crowley. Promise me you won’t.”

“What’s in your cabinets?”

“ _Promise me_ —”

“Alright, jeez, I’ll leave your cabinets alone. I’ll miracle up some tea leaves instead, how about that?”

Aziraphale still didn’t like Crowley being in the kitchen, in such close proximity to the holy water, but logically it should be alright as long as she wasn’t rummaging through his things. “Yes—yes, alright—” He turned and sneezed away from Crowley, and reached for his handkerchief.

A Kleenex box materialized out of thin air on the coffee table in front of him. “Don’t just use the same one over and over,” Crowley called from the kitchen. “It’s not sanitary. And there’s no point wasting the energy to clean it.”

Aziraphale smiled. “That’s very thoughtful, my dear.”

“I’ll let that one pass, but only because you’re very sick,” said Crowley. “What do you want? Darjeeling, bit of milk?”

That was Aziraphale’s usual tea, but it wouldn’t be the best thing for his throat right now. “There’s a lovely green tea in the drawer with a bit of crystalized ginger. It’s wonderful with a few drops of honey.”

He heard a sigh from the kitchen. “I thought I wasn’t allowed in the drawers.”

“Cabinets, dear. The ones above the stove. Don’t—don’t—”

“Alright, I’m not touching the cabinets. Drawers only. Green ginger with honey, coming right up.”

There was some rummaging and a hiss of steam, and Crowley returned a few moments later with a steaming mug, which she set on the table in front of Aziraphale. “So,” she said, collapsing into the armchair, “you clearly downplayed how serious it is over the phone.”

“I’m sure it looks worse than it is.” Aziraphale picked up the mug. His hands were just barely shaking in a way he didn’t remember happening before. Maybe it was the fever.

Crowley had noticed the shaking, too. She raised one eyebrow. “Is this gonna be like that time you caught the Justinian plague?”

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale sipped the tea. “I did not _catch_ the Justinian plague. You know we can’t catch human illnesses.”

“Well, you were surrounded by humans who had it, and you had all the symptoms—”

“Some of the symptoms,” Aziraphale corrected him. “I didn’t turn black, or…swell.” The memory made him shudder, which turned into another bout of shivering. He’d been stationed in a hospital during the outbreak and instructed not to save anyone, except spiritually. That was the first time he’d come down with a fever.

“You caught the plague,” Crowley asserted. “My question is, are you gonna be difficult again? Pretend you’re fine, and run me off, and then still be bedridden when I come back in a week or so?”

“I won’t—” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley knew him well enough to see through his lies. She would leave if he asked him to, but the poor thing would only worry, and he didn’t want that. “Fine,” he muttered. “Alright, yes, I feel awful.”

“Which side of it are you on? Getting better, or worse?”

He sipped his tea as a stalling tactic, and then admitted, “Worse.”

Crowley nodded, grimacing. “Wanna tell me what’s been going on?”

“Not really,” he admitted.

“Work stuff?”

Aziraphale nodded.

She sat back in the chair and crossed one ankle over her knee. “Alright, let me guess. Sandalphon? Gabriel? Michael?” Aziraphale must have reacted to the last name, because she made a face. “Wanker.”

“Crowley, why are you here?” Aziraphale interrupted. Ever since she had walked in, he’d felt like he was missing some context, and he couldn’t tell whether it was the fever or the grogginess from his accidental nap or if Crowley had actually left something out.

She gestured at him. “The heaven does that matter, when you’re on death’s door? Y’look like hell, did I mention? I’ve seen hell, and it’s shit, and that’s what you look like right now.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Well, you’ve looked better, yourself. Your hair’s much too long.”

Crowley frowned, looking down at the wild red hair which fell almost to her waist. She picked up a lock to examine it. “D’you think so?”

Aziraphale didn’t think so, not really. The style would have made anyone else look like they didn’t know how to use a hairbrush. On Crowley, though—

“Was thinking of cutting it, anyway, when the weather warms up,” she said, brushing it behind her shoulders with far more practiced carelessness than was necessary. “Forget my hair. You need to rest. Drink your tea, then take a nap.”

“I tried that,” said Aziraphale. “I woke up feeling worse.”

“That’s probably because you’re still getting worse. If you’re asleep, at least you won’t have to feel like shit.”

Aziraphale frowned and drank the rest of the tea. “I hate when you make sense.”

“Aha, you see?” Crowley took the mug and motioned with her head for Aziraphale to lie down on the sofa. “Trust me, it’ll do you good. Drink some water when you wake up.”

“I’m not a child, Crowley,” Aziraphale grumbled as he lay back on the sofa. “I don’t need you here fussing around. I can take care of myself.”

“Good,” said Crowley. “Do it, then. The job’s no fun if my adversary’s out of commission.” She stood over Aziraphale for a moment, then cleared her throat pointedly. “I believe the first step to falling asleep is typically closing your eyes?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes before closing them. “I still don’t believe this will help.”

“You’ll have to prove me wrong, then.” He heard footsteps as Crowley walked away. “See you when you’re feeling better. Night, Aziraphale.”

“It’s morning.”

“It’s three in the afternoon. Figure of speech anyway.”

“Very well. Good night, my dear.” Lying there with his eyes shut was already doing strange things to his consciousness. He clutched the quilt around himself and tried not to shiver.

Crowley sat down with a sigh. “Alright, out with it. What’s got you in such a state?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Crowley.” Aziraphale sipped his cocoa. It was mostly steam.

“It bloody well does concern me, and you know it. It’s not going to get any better until you address the problem. So we’re talking this out.” Her eyes, golden all the way to the edges, held Aziraphale in place. “What’s the assignment? Tell me about it.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “I don’t…I don’t know if I can do it,” he admitted.

“So what if you can’t?”

Aziraphale swallowed and looked at the table. Everything else blurred in the edges of his vision. “They’ll kill you, Crowley. They’ll—they’ll ask me to kill you.”

Crowley didn’t look surprised, or even frightened. She actually smiled. “Is that all?”

Aziraphale stared. “What do you mean, ‘is that all’?”

“Pshh.” Crowley waved a hand. “Forget saving me, just go ahead and do that part. Easy. Bit of holy water and all your problems are solved.”

Aziraphale’s heartbeat sounded too loud. “Wh—why would you say that? I can’t, I-I could never—”

Crowley sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Are you gonna make me do everything myself? Fine.” She got up and strode behind the sofa, out of Aziraphale’s line of sight.

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale tried to twist around to see her, but he was tangled up in too many blankets, and he couldn’t tell where she had gone.

“S’alright, angel,” she said breezily. “I’ll take care of it. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

“No—Crowley!”

Aziraphale bolted up off the sofa, blankets flying in every direction. His head spun. He couldn’t remember where Crowley’s voice had come from, and she was nowhere to be seen. “Crowley?” he called, circling the room. His heart racing, he ran into the kitchen. She wasn’t there, either. “Crow—No—” He fumbled to open the cabinet and push the pasta boxes out of the way.

The bottle of holy water was still there, full and tightly sealed. Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped in relief. He leaned against the cabinet for support while his heart rate settled, and then struggled with his shaking hands to set the bottle and the pasta boxes upright.

It must have been another dream. The cocoa he’d been drinking was gone, he couldn’t remember Crowley coming in, and none of her reactions had made sense. Plus, he noticed when he made his way back to the sofa, there was a glass of water on the table that hadn’t been there in his dream, and a brown paper bag which, on closer inspection, held a half-dozen little brioche rolls. Aziraphale smiled and nibbled on one of them. It was a little stale, but still delicious, and Aziraphale was ravenously hungry.

He coughed as it went down and washed it down with some of the water, but the coughing went on for a minute or so after that. His throat burned. He drank the rest of the water, which helped for about thirty seconds. More tea would probably help, but he didn’t feel like walking back into the kitchen to make it. Instead, he ate the other five brioche rolls, which didn’t help his throat, but did make him feel better to have something in his stomach.

He didn’t have the energy to do much else at the moment, so he picked up _Emma,_ which happened to be within reach, but even after hours of staring at the words on the page he couldn’t focus on them. The dream had felt too real, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the silence in the bookshop when he woke and thought Crowley might be gone for good.

His head pounded when he got up, but he stubbornly refused to sit back down. To prove that he was alright, he went into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea, and went into a coughing fit that had him leaning against the counter for support. It seemed a lot of bother to return to the sofa while the tea brewed, only to get up again to pour it, so he stayed in the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. His eye flitted around the back room, which had gotten even dustier than usual. Perhaps he should pull a few extra books from the shelves, if he was going to be spending more time on the sofa. His eye landed on the desk, where an unfamiliar stack of envelopes made him frown and then smile. Crowley must have brought in the mail for him. He went over to see what he had missed.

His initial redemption outline, which sat in the middle of the desk, drew his attention. He’d filled in some notes as he went along, but it was still embarrassingly sparse. On the back, he’d started jotting down ideas for where to go next. Perhaps he should get started on those. Dream-Crowley had been right, he wasn’t going to recover if he sat around worrying and doing nothing. He was in no shape to actually talk to Michael or any other angels right now, but perhaps he could start preparing a list of questions to ask Crowley’s former coworkers, or draft what to say to the Metatron, if it came to that. He got out a sheet of paper and a pen and started writing.

The door opened some time later, and Aziraphale jumped, stuffed the paper he’d been working on into a drawer and turned, smiling, to the doorway. “Hello, Crowley,” he said as the demon rounded the corner. “Thank you for the brioche, it was delicious.”

She shrugged and slouched carelessly against the doorframe. “Mneh, well. No sense in you going all the way to a bakery in your state, if you woke up feeling peckish. Good to see you’re awake, by the way.”

“Yes, I’m feeling much better,” Aziraphale lied.

Crowley tipped her shades down to look at him doubtfully.

Aziraphale fidgeted. “I only feel a little bit worse.”

“Still getting worse?” Frowning, Crowley stepped forward and held the back of her hand against Aziraphale’s forehead for a moment. “You’re warm, but I don’t think the fever’s high. Then again, I’m no doctor.”

“Do _not_ call a doctor,” Aziraphale begged him.

“They’ve moved past draining humors since the 500s, Aziraphale.”

“I’d rather not risk it. Where—where are you going?”

Crowley had stepped across the room toward the kitchen. “Just getting some water. You sound hoarse. Have you been—”

Aziraphale jumped to his feet so fast he knocked over his chair and his head spun, and he stumbled and fell against one of the bookshelves. The dream was still too fresh in his mind. “Don’t go in there!”

To his relief, she stopped. “Is this about the cabinets again? What the heaven do you have in there?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale lied. “It’s nothing, it’s _nothing_ —Stay out of there, please. I’ll get the water.”

Crowley frowned, but walked over and draped herself across the sofa without argument. She promptly jumped up again. “Eugh, Aziraphale, the sofa’s covered in sweat.”

“Oh, sorry—”

“You’re sick, y’don’t have to be sorry. I’m taking your chair again, though.”

Aziraphale filled a glass from the sink, and poured himself a cup of tea while he was at it. When he returned and handed the water to Crowley, she deflected it with a wave of her hand. “That’s for you. Drink up.”

Feeling like he had been tricked, Aziraphale sipped the water and sat back on the sweat-dampened sofa. “I appreciate this, Crowley, but there’s really no need for you to check up on me.”

“Apparently there is, if you’re still getting worse and haven’t been drinking water,” she said. “How long did it take you to get over the plague, again?”

“I never had the plague.”

“You might as well have. How long?”

Aziraphale ducked his head. “Six weeks.” He couldn’t be out of commission for that long again. He had less than six weeks before the April meeting.

Crowley sighed and shook her head. “Well, maybe if you work with me, it won’t take so long this time.”

“What are you planning to do? This isn’t some human illness. It won’t respond to antibiotics or medical care, and it won’t pass like a virus.”

“It’ll pass if you get at what’s causing it,” said Crowley. “Doesn’t take a genius to see that something’s been bothering you, angel. Did they give you a really shitty assignment, or—”

“I can’t tell you about it,” Aziraphale blurted out. His pulse quickened. This felt too similar to his dream. His eyes flitted to the kitchen involuntarily.

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “You can’t?”

“Of course not. You’re the Opposition.”

“You told me about the birth of the bloody Messiah.”

“On accident!” Aziraphale rubbed his eyes. His forehead was slick with sweat. He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Please, I-I can’t—”

“Right, right, calm down.” Crowley held up her hands until Aziraphale started breathing normally again. “Though, er…full disclosure, I might’ve seen some notes on your desk,” she added, cringing.

“You—” Aziraphale’s throat tightened. He’d left his notes on redemption right there in full view. “You went s-snooping through my things?”

“It was a cursory glance! Didn’t know it was a secret, and your twelve-step plan for redemption was sitting right there.”

“There were only three steps.” Aziraphale put his head in his hands. If Crowley knew what he was doing, the whole thing might be ruined. Plus, she would know Aziraphale had been keeping things from her, sneaking around behind her back, digging for information about her past…

“Must be a tough nut to crack,” said Crowley. “You’re usually so good at that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale raised his head. “What?”

“Whoever it is you’re trying to redeem. Must be a real Scrooge.”

He blinked. Somewhere under all the phlegm in his head, he realized that everything was not lost. Thank goodness he habitually avoided putting identifying information about Crowley in writing. He laughed with relief. “Scrooge, ha. Maybe—maybe I should find two other angels to help. Three spirits.”

Crowley grinned. “Not an angel, but I can volunteer. I’ll be Christmas future. Dress up all spooky and point at stuff.”

Aziraphale chuckled and drank his water. Crowley was still watching him, probably wondering whether Aziraphale would explain first, or if she would have to ask. His smile faded as he set down the water. “It’s a frightfully important assignment. And I—I haven’t been making much progress.” He swallowed. “I’m running out of time.”

“They put you on a deadline for something like this?” Crowley burst out. “No wonder you’re worked up. They should know that’s not how soul-saving works.”

Aziraphale nodded, looking at the table and kneading his hands.

“So, when’s it due?” Crowley asked. “Wait, let me guess. It’s this fall, isn’t it?”

“It’s—What?”

“Well, you had the word ‘fall’ circled and underlined twice. Wasn’t sure what that meant.”

Thank heaven for that. Aziraphale nodded. “Fall. Yes, it’s—That’s right. This fall.”

Crowley shook her head. “Seems weird that they’d know exactly when this person’s gonna die. Plus, I thought all souls mattered the same. Why’s this one so important?”

 _Because it’s you._ Aziraphale looked at Crowley for a moment, then sniffled and got a Kleenex to wipe his nose. “It’s important to me.”

Crowley’s forehead was still wrinkled in confusion, but she nodded and didn’t press the matter. “Well, what I can do to help?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I need to do this myself. I—I can’t even tell you who it is, Crowley.” His voice broke. Crowley was so earnest, so concerned about him, so thoughtful. But this was one thing she couldn’t help him with.

“Anything else, then? What’ll help you feel better?” Crowley asked. “I could maybe handle some of your other work so you can focus on this. Just write me a checklist.”

Aziraphale tried not to be overwhelmed by how freely the offer was given, or how much Crowley wanted to help. She was so kind, so genuinely _good._ How was it possible for a demon to care this much? How was it possible that she was still a demon?

“I, um.” He drew a shaky breath and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes, that—that might help.”

“Don’t thank me, or anything,” said Crowley said, before Aziraphale could. “You’ll owe me, anyway. S’what the whole arrangement’s for.”

She would never call in the favor, but Aziraphale pretended they kept score, and nodded. “A…a checklist, you said? I’ll write one up later today.”

“Just send it over,” said Crowley. “Get some more rest. And don’t you dare try going out for lunch or anything.

Aziraphale nodded. “I’m sorry to worry you like this, my dear.”

“Good thing I’m not worried, then,” said Crowley. “You’ll get over this thing, then you’ll get back on the job and save that person’s soul, no problem. You’re the only one here who’s worrying about it.”

“Do you think so?” He looked at Crowley hopefully. Crowley didn’t know what she was saying, but it was such a comfort to hear it from her.

She looked back with an encouraging half-smile. “‘Course. For you? It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Now she’d done it. She’d mentioned cake. Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled, and he looked down at it, embarrassed.

Crowley looked at it, too. “S’pose I should’ve seen that coming.” She got to her feet with a sigh. “Alright, what kind do you want?”

“Oh—oh,” said Aziraphale when he realized what she meant. “There’s no need to—”

“You’ll be thinking about cake all afternoon otherwise,” said Crowley. “And I don’t want you trying to get down to the bakery in your current state. So. What kind?”

Aziraphale didn’t deserve her. He smiled, hoping he didn’t look as emotional as he felt. “Chocolate, please, if they have it.”

“They’ll have it.” Crowley swept out of the room, long hair trailing behind her. “Back in a bit, angel.”

“Mind how you go.” He waited until Crowley had opened the front door before calling, “Thank you, my dear.”

Her footsteps paused. Aziraphale imagined she would be shooting a glare towards the back room. “Neh,” she grunted, and left.

Aziraphale sipped his water. The shop felt much too quiet now. Sneezing and coughing in the bookshop by himself had gotten lonely, and he hadn’t realized how much until the first time Crowley had dropped in. He felt better already just from being in her presence for a few minutes. Well, from that, and from how readily she had encouraged him.

_For you? It’ll be a piece of cake._

He filed that memory away to take out and look at when he needed comfort in the future. Crowley didn’t know what he was trying to do, but she believed in him. It meant more than she could ever know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Crowley no don't encourage him)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael swept behind her standing desk. “Well?” she said.
> 
> Aziraphale jumped. “I—Yes. I wondered if I might request a spot of assistance with this project.”

Aziraphale’s fever broke later that night, and he woke up sweating, but no longer shivering. His head like his own again, and he hadn’t had any strange dreams, either. His condition improved slowly, but it did improve, aided by Crowley’s continued visits. In just under a week, he felt well enough to go out for lunch again. Several days later, he could go out to lunch without Crowley scolding him for it.

His cough lingered, but that was usually the last symptom to disappear. All that mattered was that it faded by the time he returned to heaven. Giving his report to the archangels in a hoarse voice would not look good for him. When he’d gotten sick from being around the plague, the timing had been poor, and Gabriel nearly demoted him just so he wouldn’t have to talk to someone whose corporation was malfunctioning and, as he’d put it, “spewing fluids.” Aziraphale drank up the rest of his ginger tea and most of his honey in the weeks leading up to the spring meeting, so that wouldn’t happen again.

The drawback of recovering was that Crowley stopped his near-daily check-ins to see how he was coming along. The demon had dutifully completed every checklist Aziraphale gave her with less complaining than usual, even the ones that included such distasteful activities as volunteering in a soup kitchen and carrying groceries for the elderly. Perhaps it had sped Aziraphale’s recovery to know that Crowley was doing good deeds. It also gave him a convenient list of points in Crowley’s favor if he needed to make an argument for her salvation.

By the time the April meeting finally arrived, he had compiled a list of notes and evidence to help his case. He’d had to edit some of the interview questions he had prepared for the other starmakers, because the ones he had written while he was bedridden hadn’t made much sense, and also because he couldn’t settle on the precise phrasing he would use to explain why he was asking about the Fallen, and that his intentions were entirely aboveboard. After one last rehearsal of what he was going to say to Michael, he tucked the folder into the inner pocket of his jacket, straightened his bowtie, and marched up to heaven.

Gabriel greeted him with his usual fake smile when he reached the open meeting space. "Aziraphale! The angel of the hour. How’s your project coming along?”

Aziraphale hadn’t expected him to start with that right away, but he smiled placidly back. “Quite well, in fact. The demon has been showing consistent progress. Just this past quarter, her count of good deeds increased by an estimated forty-five percent.”

That was one of the highest fake statistics Aziraphale had ever used, and the archangels were understandably flabbergasted. He produced the checklist as proof, and they passed it back and forth, muttering to each other. “This is unheard of,” said Uriel, looking down the list. “Are you certain its motives were pure?”

“I believe so,” said Aziraphale. “She shows a genuine interest in—in helping people.” That was true, from a certain viewpoint. Aziraphale was a person.

“Good deeds alone don’t get humans into heaven,” said Michael. “It is unlikely that they will be enough to return a demon to grace.”

Aziraphale wilted a little. “Yes, I know.”

Michael looked at him expectantly. “Well? Have you seen anything to suggest that the demon’s fundamental nature has, or will, change?”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to answer that. Crowley had always been kind. This wasn’t really progress, it was just confirmation of what he had already known to be true. Crowley had yet to show any remorse for her demonic acts, and he was no closer to getting her to repent for Falling. But he couldn’t say any of that to the archangels. “Yes, in fact. I believe the demon is now at least eight percent less demonic when compared to last quarter.”

It was a small number, to keep their expectations low, but it was shocking for him to claim to be making any progress at all with a demon. Gabriel applauded. “Very impressive!”

The others, as usual were less impressed, and much less convinced. Aziraphale did not have a list of evidence to back up this claim.

“ _If_ that’s true, eight percent is not enough,” said Sandalphon. “It will take too long.”

“Erm, yes, I haven’t forgotten the deadline.” Aziraphale squirmed, even as he tried not to. “I’m close to a breakthrough, I think, and then the rate of progress should increase.”

They nodded at each other in approval. “So you still believe we’ll get the bastard by next summer?” asked Uriel.

Aziraphale wouldn’t have put it exactly like that, but he nodded. “Yes, everything’s right on schedule. I’m on track for next summer. Nothing to worry about.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I was worried, or thought you were.”

After a brief discussion of Aziraphale’s other accomplishments for the quarter (of which there weren’t very many) and the upcoming annual company morale outing (which was always _The Sound of Music,_ and which Aziraphale skipped as often as he could get away with), he was finally dismissed. The archangels dispersed, and Aziraphale started walking back to the escalator as he usually did. When he was sure the archangels’ backs were turned, he changed course and hurried to catch up with Michael.

“Pardon me, Michael,” he said, chasing after her with tiny, hurried steps. “Might I have a quick word in private?”

Michael looked at him like she couldn’t believe his audacity, but to be fair, that was how Michael usually looked at him. “Very well,” she said with an unnecessary sigh, and waved him ahead of her. “We can talk in my office.”

“Jolly good.”

The landscape outside Michael’s window had changed, and now displayed a replica of the Forbidden City of Beijing, except that the largest hall had been replaced with an onion-domed Eastern Orthodox church. It was a very confusing and distracting visual. Aziraphale looked at it for a few seconds while Michael swept behind her standing desk. “Well?” she said.

Aziraphale jumped. “I—Yes. I wondered if I might request a spot of assistance with this project.” He folded his hands habitually behind his back. “As I said in the meeting, I have made progress, and I do believe I am on track. However, in order to create the sort of breakthrough the demon will need, I will need certain information which has so far proven, ah, difficult to ascertain.”

He paused a moment to gauge Michael’s reaction. She stared at him and said nothing. He took this as permission to continue. “I believe I will need to discover why the demon Fell, but it seems heaven no longer has records of the former names of the Fallen. But—but memories of them still exist. We all remember their past identities. There must be someone up here who knows the demon’s former name.”

Michael looked down at the desk and propped her head up on her fingertips. She closed her eyes for a moment. Perhaps, behind her eyelids, she was rolling them. At least Crowley had the decency to roll her eyes with her entire body when her eyes were hidden.

“I simply wondered if you might know where I could start,” Aziraphale said, his confidence faltering. “I know that Cr—The demon used to make stars and nebulae. I can provide a physical description, if that would be helpful, or perhaps—”

“Aziraphale,” Michael finally interrupted. “Surely you don’t actually believe you can save a demon?”

Aziraphale blinked. Of course he did. Michael was the one who had given him the idea in the first place. “Well, yes. I…I said as much in the meeting today. Twice. And in the meetings before that.”

Michael looked around, even though they were alone in the room, then turned around and closed the blinds with a flick of her wrist. “I assumed that you were simply stalling. That it would take time for you to catch the demon and destroy them. Or, perhaps, to work up the nerve.”

“I presented a list of good deeds the demon has done,” Aziraphale protested, his voice climbing higher. “You were there. I have been making progress.”

“That was true?” Michael shook her head. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. This is a lost cause. This is a _demon_ we are discussing, not some human led astray.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Some would say demons are simply angels that were led astray.”

Michael drew a deep breath and lowered her voice. “Allow me to be frank,” she hissed in a near-whisper. Michael had never been frank before. The possibility frightened him. “Aziraphale, I am trying to _help you_.”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to react. None of the thoughts that popped into his mind were wise to voice aloud.

“Think for a moment about what I found. There were quite a lot of photographs.” Michael gave him a moment to think about the volume of photographs. “I am giving you a change to fix your mistakes. Your loyalty is in question at the moment. Destroy the demon, and the problem disappears.”

“I-I am loyal.” Aziraphale took a step backwards. “I’ve always been. But—”

“What if I hadn’t been the one to find the evidence?” Michael went on, still in a near-whisper. “Would Uriel have given you the same chance? Would Sandalphon?”

He was starting to see her point. Perhaps he had been lucky. She had even handed him an excuse, when by all accounts he should have been cast out of heaven immediately. But killing Crowley—

“Demons _cannot be saved,_ ” she said, driving her index finger into the desk. “You are being foolish. Destroy the demon quickly, and we need never speak of this again.”

He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he _couldn’t._ His breath was shallow. If he didn’t, he would Fall. If he did—It was heaven or Crowley, and that wasn’t a choice he could make. But what did that say about his loyalty, if he was torn between one single demon and all of heaven?

“I-I can still try,” he said, without looking at Michael. “I have your permission, and that of the other archangels. You—you gave me two years,” he added, a little desperately.

She sighed and opened the blinds again. “True. If you want to waste that time, I can’t stop you.” She paused for a few seconds to give Aziraphale’s spirits enough time to lift before she squashed them down again. “But we have been quite clear about the resources we are willing to expend on this. You said you believed you could complete this by next summer by yourself _._ If you require more assistance, if you pull in more angels, you draw time and energy away from other important endeavors.”

Aziraphale’s heart plummeted. “I only need to ask a few questions—”

“This is my final answer, Aziraphale.”

His shoulders slumped, and he knew he wasn’t doing an adequate job of keeping the misery out of his face. “I-I understand. Thank you for your time.”

Michael’s expression softened just a fraction, from granite-hard to marble. “I understand that this is difficult for you to accept, and you will still have until next summer, as promised. But you must accept it.”

Aziraphale looked at the phone on Michael’s desk, and thought about her “reliable source,” and wondered how she would have reacted if she’d been told to kill them. He doubted that was an equivalent comparison to him and Crowley. Still, Michael probably understood what he was going through better than any of the other archangels would. That might have been funny, if it wasn’t so awful.

“Good luck to you, Aziraphale.” Michael turned her attention to some paperwork on her desk.

That was Aziraphale’s cue to leave, so he did. He should have expected this. He felt like a fool for not expecting it. He had forgotten that, even though she claimed to support him, Michael only supported one of the two acceptable outcomes of this assignment.

Perhaps the other archangels would help him? Uriel had been enthusiastic about recruiting a demon, though it was for entirely the wrong reasons. Aziraphale found her office and knocked politely at the door. “Who’s there?”

“Aziraphale,” he said. “Principality. We, ah, just spoke several minutes ago.”

The door opened. Aziraphale entered and gave the same pitch that he had given Michael. Uriel appeared much more receptive. She didn’t interrupt him at all, which was rare for her, and actually nodded once when he mentioned learning about the Fall. “Sounds reasonable,” she said when he had finished, and Aziraphale could have hugged her, if he didn’t think she would snap his corporation’s neck for trying. “I’ll see what I can—”

A piece of paper appeared in Uriel’s inbox. Aziraphale caught sight of Michael’s silver monogram at the bottom before Uriel picked it up to read it. “Hm. Nevermind,” she said, setting the memo aside. “We’ve already limited the angel-hours to spend on this experiment.”

“It won’t be much, I swear,” said Aziraphale, his voice high. “I only need to ask a few questions—Look, I already have them written out—”

Uriel held up the memo. “Take it up with Michael. She’s the authority on this project.”

Aziraphale nodded and resisted the urge to wail. “Okay. Thank you.”

He returned to Earth with a heavy heart, and reached the bookshop with a dozen chocolate cookies and a paper bag of scones that he did not remember buying. He made a pot of tea, and sat in the back room with his untouched mug cooling on the table in front of him. The cookies were gone a few hours later, even though he didn’t remember eating them. The chocolate didn’t make him feel any better. Neither did the scones.

Nobody was going to help him. He couldn’t talk to any other angels without directly disobeying Michael. Perhaps he could still try bringing this before the Metatron, but Michael would not appreciate him going over her head, and neither would the other archangels. And the Metatron probably had more important things to do than discuss the fate of one demon. Aziraphale’s plea would probably just get lost in the slush pile of human prayers and angelic requests that came into Her office. Most of them never even made it to the Almighty. The Metatron’s assistants would probably read it, have a nice laugh about the idiot trying to save a demon’s soul, and toss it aside.

He still had over a year. There was still time to figure something out, to either find a way to save Crowley, in spite of Michael’s criticism, or…or to accept the alternative.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wanted to see Crowley more than anything. Not for any particular reason, or even so he could try to make progress on the salvation front, but just to see him. It was entirely possible that they would have just over a year left together, and that would be it.

It was summer already.

And what had Aziraphale accomplished? He repaired a few books and accidentally sold a few others. He got drenched on his way to the park because he hadn’t checked the weather and forgot to bring an umbrella. Once, he ate half a cheesecake at a café before the waiter realized how many consecutive slices he had ordered and asked him to leave. He hadn’t realized how much he had eaten, either. There was no real harm in it, since his stomach capacity was limitless, but it still made him sleepy for most of the rest of that day.

He hadn’t seen Crowley since his illness. It was necessary to keep some distance between themselves, especially after how much time they’d spent together recently. Shadwell kept Aziraphale informed about what Crowley was up to, which the young lance corporal suspected involved organized crime. He could very well be right, but Aziraphale couldn’t have Shadwell thinking that, so he made up some rambling excuse ending with the conclusion that, if Crowley was involved in any crime, it was more likely to be of the extremely disorganized variety. So Shadwell went back to accusing the demon of things like arson and jaywalking.

Aziraphale wanted to see Crowley more than anything. Not for any particular reason, or even so he could try to make progress on the salvation front, but just to see him. It was entirely possible that they would have just over a year left together, and that would be it.

Aziraphale rarely drank just for the sake of drinking, but these were extraordinary circumstances, so he opened a bottle of wine in the back of the shop and made himself even more miserable. Two glasses in, he was listening to German waltzes and reminiscing about that time he and Crowley had bumped into each other at a ball in Vienna and Crowley spent the whole night trying to wheedle and cajole Aziraphale into dancing. Four glasses in, he ripped his redemption notes to shreds, and then immediately regretted it and gathered up the pieces into a pile to tape back together when he was feeling more coordinated. At the fifth glass, he called Crowley just to hear his voice.

It rang five times before the demon picked up. “Who’s ‘is?” he grumbled. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever heard a better sound. “S’three in the bloody morning.”

Aziraphale hadn’t called to talk, so he didn’t say anything. It was starting to occur to him that this might not have been his best idea.

“Is this a prank, or what?” Crowley asked. “Who the fuck is this?”

Aziraphale swallowed and sobered up partway. He choked a bit when he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“Aziraphale?” The sleepy dullness snapped out of Crowley’s voice. “What are you—What’s happened?”

He shook his head, even though Crowley couldn’t see him. He didn’t trust himself to speak again.

“Hang on, I’ll be right there,” said Crowley. “It’ll be alright. Just—hold on.” _Click._

Aziraphale set down the phone, regretting picking it up in the first place. There was no reason for him to have gotten Crowley out of bed at this hour, and now the demon would only worry about him. It was bad enough that he’d had to take care of Aziraphale while he was sick. He really shouldn’t have called.

But it had been so nice to hear Crowley’s voice. And now he was on his way here. The thought shouldn’t have warmed Aziraphale’s heart, but it did.

The Bentley skidded to a stop outside the bookshop minutes later, and Crowley charged into the shop. “Angel?”

“I’m here.” He smiled and waved from the doorway to the back room. “I apologize, I had a bit of a moment earlier.”

Crowley sniffed the air and made a face. “Been drinking by yourself?”

“A bit,” Aziraphale admitted. “I’m sober now, though.”

Crowley stepped forward and looked around the dark shop. “You scared me half to death, Aziraphale. I thought you were in trouble! You know what time it is, right?”

“Ah. Yes, you did inform me over the phone.” Crowley was going to figure out that something was wrong if given the chance. He knew Aziraphale didn’t often drink by himself, and Aziraphale couldn’t blame his tone of voice over the phone on the alcohol. He changed the subject. “Are you still working with that boy band? You appear to have fallen victim to one of your own schemes again.”

Crowley frowned. “How’s that?”

“I mean your new haircut.” He gestured at the mop-top Crowley was sporting. “You look just like that John Lemon.”

“John—” Crowley gave an exaggerated sigh. “It’s _Lennon,_ Aziraphale.”

“No, Lenin had that pointy little beard, remember?” He looked Crowley over and tutted. “That wouldn’t suit you at all. I’m very glad you went with this instead.”

Crowley groaned and rubbed his eyes under the new round sunglasses, but he appeared to be stifling a laugh. “Satan, you’re impossible.”

“It’s a wonder you put up with me at all.” Aziraphale realized he had barely stopped smiling since Crowley walked in. He always felt better with Crowley around. He wished he could never leave. “I haven’t completely finished the bottle,” he said, angling his head towards the back room. “If you’re not too put out with me for rousting you out of bed, perhaps…?”

Crowley shrugged. “Might as well have a glass or two, since I’m already here.” He followed Aziraphale back and collapsed onto the sofa.

“So,” said Aziraphale, pouring Crowley a glass. “I hear you’re getting involved with the mob?”

Crowley frowned. “How’d you hear about that?”

“Oh—You know. I work in Soho. I hear things.”

Crowley shrugged. “Was Hastur’s idea. Not terribly original, if you ask me. I don’t really get the point, seeing as we’ll get most of them anyway.”

“Hm.” Perhaps, if Aziraphale was in a more optimistic mood, he might have picked up the topic of damned souls, and tested the waters to see whether Crowley regretted what had happened to any of them. If he could still be saved…

It was becoming an increasingly big _if._

Aziraphale was standing beside the coffee table with Crowley’s wine glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. His usual chair was on the other side of the table. Instead, he sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.

Crowley didn’t comment, but Aziraphale could feel him wondering. He accepted the glass Aziraphale handed him and took a sip. “What about you? How’s…your stuff?”

He probably meant the redemption assignment. Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch.

“That bad?”

He looked over at Crowley. They had just over a year left, and then either Crowley would be restored to divinity, or the true nature of their acquaintance would be revealed to the archangels. If they put Aziraphale on trial, all the evidence would be against him. At best, he would be cast out. At worst, he wouldn’t have to worry about Falling, or anything else, anymore. And if hell caught wind of this, if Michael told her contact, or if the other angels decided to punish the demon who had corrupted one of their angels, they would come after Crowley as well. It would be the end of both of them.

They had one year.

Crowley’s forehead crinkled with concern. “Everything alright?”

Aziraphale loved him so much it hurt. He couldn’t remember when it started, or when he had realized that Crowley felt the same, or when they had come to the mutual, silent agreement that nothing could be done about it. For a few glorious months, Aziraphale had hoped that they might one day be on the same side. And perhaps they would, a year from now, and perhaps they could finally be together without it being a crime, as Aziraphale had dreamed since last summer. If not…they only had one year.

Aziraphale drew a small breath, reached over, and laid his hand on top of Crowley’s on the cushion between them. Crowley froze.

He had such beautiful, clever hands. Aziraphale had thought so many times about what it might be like to feel those slender fingers in his own, to soak up the warmth from Crowley’s palm, to run his thumb over the knuckles of those fingers as he was doing now. Why shouldn’t he, if it was all likely to come down around his head anyway? Why shouldn’t they take the year they had left and spend it together as they both wished to? With a shiver, he moved his hand forward, curling his fingers under Crowley’s palm.

Crowley had been motionless, but now his thumb shifted, voluntarily or involuntarily, to brush over the backs of Aziraphale’s fingers. He drew a sharp breath and carefully pulled his hand away. “A-Aziraphale. You’re drunk.”

“I’m not.” His hand already felt cold from the loss of Crowley’s. “I sobered up before you got here.”

“You—We can’t—” Crowley was edging away from him, bunching up on the other end of the sofa. His left hand cradled his right, mindlessly stroking the back of it as if to check whether that had actually happened. He stopped abruptly when he noticed what he was doing.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a near-whisper. He didn’t say _please_ or _I love you_ or any of the other things that he meant, but they came through anyway.

Crowley swallowed. “You’re scaring me, angel.”

Looking away, Aziraphale folded his hands back into his lap. “Ah. That—that certainly was not my intention.”

He didn’t know what he had been thinking. He wasn’t the only one at risk if their relationship was discovered, and Crowley didn’t have the ready-made excuse that Aziraphale did. They hadn’t even discussed it beforehand. He had just taken Crowley’s hand without warning or cause and expected it to be accepted without question. These things didn’t work that way.

“I should go.” Crowley wasn’t looking at Aziraphale, either, when he got up. “Er, you can have my wine.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he should apologize. He also didn’t want to acknowledge what had happened. What he had done in a moment of weakness, out of desperation and fear that his plan wouldn’t work. It had felt like giving up. “Drive safely.”

The bell at the front door jingled, and Crowley was gone. Aziraphale dumped Crowley’s wine and the rest of the bottle down the sink, and then sank into his armchair with his head in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My style of writing research is looking up the Beatles' real touring schedule from 1965-1967 and following it to the day but also ignoring the fact that this scene takes place before John Lennon started publically wearing his signature glasses because otherwise Aziraphale wouldn't be able to make fun of Crowley for this one thing


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was still one more person Aziraphale could ask for help, and that was Crowley himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is braced for angst. The next few chapters are gonna be rough.

Aziraphale almost skipped his summer report. He had done it a few times before, usually when he was either too busy or too ill or simply too fed up with Gabriel and the others to feel up to reporting. The archangels wouldn’t be happy if he cancelled, but they would tolerate it if he told them he was sneezing or bleeding from the eyes or whatever other disgusting things they thought corporations did. But then they would expect a recap of six months instead of three the next time, and he didn’t want to be the principality who kept making excuses, so he went upstairs and forced a smile and lied through his teeth about how well Crowley was progressing.

In truth, he hadn’t seen Crowley since the attempted hand-holding incident over a month ago. He was too mortified at his own behavior to call Crowley first, and maybe Crowley hadn’t known how to deal with it, either. It would be fine in the long run—if they could get past the “fraternizing” incident, they could get past anything—and it hadn’t been that long in the grand scheme of things, but it was still valuable time that was slipping away. And Aziraphale was letting it.

He hadn’t given up yet, of course he hadn’t. If he had given up, he would probably do something drastic like write a rude note to Michael, and then call Crowley up and tell him outright that they had a year left to live so they had better make it count. Instead, he…waited, he supposed. For some bolt of inspiration, or perhaps a sign from the Almighty. As long as there was still a chance that he and Crowley could both be angels together, Aziraphale could not give up. He painted the sigils necessary for a direct call to the Higher Authorities onto the bookshop floor, and covered them with a rug, in case it came to that. Hopefully it wouldn’t. He didn’t want to trouble the Almighty with this except as a last resort, and angels of his rank were only supposed to use the direct line for emergencies. He’d be reprimanded, if not demoted, and that could mean losing his post on Earth.

There was still one more person he could ask for help, and that was Crowley himself. Telling him everything would make saving him trickier, but not impossible. And the demon was so clever. Surely he’d be able to think of something.

But every time Aziraphale thought about picking up the phone, he remembered their last meeting, and told himself that it couldn’t hurt much to put it off a little longer.

After a pleasant morning, Aziraphale walked into the shop with his newly-acquired books under his arm, humming something tuneless. Perhaps he would put on some tea, then have a look at that 1815 edition of _The Pilgrim’s Progress,_ and open the shop later if he didn’t get too distracted—

“Afternoon,” said Crowley, coming around the end of a shelf and startling him so much he dropped his package. “How was the auction?”

Aziraphale shot him a look that was meant to be annoyed, but probably came out more delighted-to-see-him. “How did you know there was an auction? Have you been stalking me?” The accusation came a little too quickly. Hopefully Crowley wouldn’t see it as projecting, which it was.

Crowley leaned nonchalantly against the bookcase. “Nah, you’ve just got that post-auction air. And new books.” He shrugged apologetically. “I let myself in, and thought I’d wait around to see if you came back. Hope you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale never minded, but he didn’t say that out loud. Crowley ought to know that by now, anyway. “What brings you?”

Crowley peeled himself from the bookcase and circled behind Aziraphale as he went into the back room to put away his packages. “I’m supposed to go to America again next week. Beatles are on tour again. You wouldn’t happen to have anything to do there, do you? We could flip for it.”

Aziraphale looked at him, startled. Crowley couldn’t leave London _now,_ of all times. He probably could have come up with an excuse to follow Crowley to the States, but then Crowley would point out that it was a waste of time for both of them to go, which was the whole reason they’d come up with the Arrangement in the first place. “How long will you be gone?”

“Dunno. Few months, at least.”

Aziraphale couldn’t afford to wait that long. He would need to talk to Crowley about the plan today, then, before he left. Either they could figure something out soon, or he could come with Crowley on his trip, or Crowley could hurry back once he had finished whatever he needed to do. But they needed to talk about it today. “I, er, I don’t have anything in America.”

“Too bad. I’m getting really tired of this whole Beatlemania thing. It’s been years, you’d think they’d get over it.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting here all afternoon.” Aziraphale ducked into the kitchen and retrieved the bottle of prosecco he had left chilling in the fridge. He didn’t know how to start this conversation, but first he needed to make sure Crowley didn’t leave. He turned back and held up the bottle. “Perhaps I could make it up to you?”

Crowley nodded appreciatively at the bottle “I was thinking dinner, actually.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it a bit early for dinner?”

“Well, actually, I was thinking lunch, but you weren’t here at lunchtime.”

“Perhaps tea and sandwiches, to begin with,” Aziraphale compromised, “We can discuss dinner when the time comes.”

Crowley stifled a tiny smile. “Works for me. Might want keep that wine chilled, though.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Aziraphale beamed and reached for his jacket. This would be perfect. If Crowley had already planned for them to spend most of the day together, they would have plenty of time to talk. “The usual place, then?”

“No, look,” Crowley said, picking at a cucumber sandwich. “I never said I have anything against rare book auctions.”

“You never _said_ that.” Aziraphale glanced dryly up from his blackberry tart. “You had a tone.”

“Well, I’d never sabotage one, but I guess me and book auctions don’t have the best history,” Crowley admitted. “Like that time you sent me an ‘urgent’ message and it turned out there were two auctions that overlapped and you just wanted me to go to one for you. Dragged me away from a perfectly good party! I had to apologize to Lord Byron for leaving early.” He grimaced. “You made me _apologize_. I still haven’t forgiven you for that.”

“Honestly, Crowley, it’s been centuries,” said Aziraphale with a sigh. “I don’t keep bringing up that time you got so drunk you fell off a boat into the Thames, and I had to jump in and fish you out.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“And I’m quite certain Lord Byron’s forgotten about it by now.”

“Not me.” Crowley tapped his head. “Real long memory, me.”

Aziraphale tutted, turning back to his tart. He hadn’t yet found a good opening to tell Crowley the truth about his assignment, but now that the subject of forgiveness had come up, perhaps he could lead them into it. “Well, I forgive you for jumping into the Thames.”

“You’re mentioning it an awful lot for someone who’s let it go. And I didn’t jump, I _fell_. Sauntered vaguely off the boat. Didn’t ask you to come after me, anyway.”

“I _said,_ it’s forgiven.” Aziraphale set down his teacup. _And by the way, about that other, more significant time you Fell…_ No, that didn’t seem to work.

“So is it my turn, now?” Crowley asked sarcastically. “You forgive me for the boat thing, so now I’m supposed to say it’s all good with that party you interrupted, and we go round-robin until we run out of grievances?”

Aziraphale sighed irritably. “You know forgiveness doesn’t work like that.”

Crowley pointed at himself. “Demon. Wouldn’t know how it works. We don’t get forgiveness.”

Aziraphale lifted a bit of tart on his fork. This was as good a chance as any. “You don’t know that.”

Crowley laughed, his head tipping back, and picked up his teacup. “It’s part of the point, Aziraphale. Think I’d know better than you.”

“Have you tried asking?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead. The teacup in his hand hovered halfway between the table and his mouth. He smiled uncertainly, like he knew there was a joke in there somewhere, even if he didn’t quite get it. “Have I what now?”

“Well, if you’ve never asked…” Aziraphale cast a glance at the heavens, waving his fork in that general direction, then looked back at Crowley. “Then how can you know for certain?”

“Her?” Crowley pointed up. “You want me to ask…” He trailed off, the smile fading. “You’re serious.”

“It’s worth a try, don’t you think?” If Crowley had never considered the possibility, either, it would be as much a shock to him as it had been to Aziraphale. Except Crowley didn’t know about the external threats pressuring him to repent. If he did it without ever finding out about the deadline, without the selfish motive of self-preservation, his chances would be better. Hopefully Aziraphale was doing a decent job hiding his desperation. Crowley could still be saved. He had to be.

“Oh.”

It was a horrible sound. There was a lot wrapped up in that syllable, shock, disappointment, embarrassment, hurt. Most of all, hurt. Crowley set down his teacup with a shaking hand. “Your assignment,” he said, his voice as unsteady as his hand. “Your…target. It’s me, isn’t it?”

This was not the reaction Aziraphale had expected. He nodded.

Crowley let out an odd, ragged breath that might have been an attempt at a laugh. He sat there without moving for a few more seconds, and then the porcelain clattered as he grabbed the edge of the table and levered himself out of his chair. “I need to go. I’ve got—stuff.”

Aziraphale was frozen, his tart-laden fork still in mid-air. He blinked. Crowley was hurrying away from him, shoulders hunched. He blinked again. Crowley was at the door.

He dropped the fork and scrambled out of the chair just as the door shut behind Crowley. “Wait—” A waiter tried to stop him, but he shoved a wad of cash at the man for their meal and pushed past him. “Crowley!” He burst onto the street. For a terrifying moment, he thought he was too late, but then his eyes fell on Crowley’s red hair and he ran down the sidewalk to catch up. “Crowley,” he gasped, when he was within hearing distance. Crowley was still determinedly walking away from him without looking back. Aziraphale jogged the last few steps and put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Crowley jerked away from his hand and turned to face him, hands in his pockets, his back tense. “What’s wrong?” He stepped backwards, putting more distance between then. “My best friend’s been secretly trying to convert me this whole time, is what’s _wrong._ ”

“Cr—” Aziraphale doubled over, gasping for breath after his short run. It didn’t help that Crowley had just called Aziraphale his best friend, rather loudly and in public. He couldn’t help looking around to see if any of his coworkers might have heard. “Ah—I’m sorry it had to be a secret, my dear—”

“Don’t you dare call me that.”

“—Only I thought it was the best way,” he finished, looking up at Crowley. “If—if you knew, your motives might not have—”

“Oh, my _motives._ What about your motive, Aziraphale?” Crowley was pacing the sidewalk restlessly. People were starting to stare. “What did you think justified, I dunno, whatever your side’s equivalent of a—a seduction is?”

Aziraphale stared. _“What?”_

“They’d love it if you recruited a demon, wouldn’t they?” Crowley rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses and let out a horrible laugh that was half a sob. “Probably promote you. Satan, I’ve been ssstupid.”

“This isn’t a seduction!” Aziraphale was only partially following Crowley’s outburst, but he clung to some desperate hope that this was all a misunderstanding, and they could clear it up if he could just get Crowley to listen. “You don’t belong in hell,” he tried.

“And you think I belong up there?” Crowley stopped his pacing to fling an arm up toward the heavens. “You think I’d just put on a white robe—”

“You don’t have to wear white. I don’t even wear white—”

“Some neutral pastel shade, then, and start taking orders from Gabriel? You think I belong working under those shitheads?”

Every new word made Aziraphale flinch. “You shouldn’t call them that.”

“Oh, go ahead, defend them like you always do.” He started pacing again. “Really, though, tell me how you thought it was gonna go. Did you think they’d be thrilled to see me again? Think they’ll just let a former demon waltz back up there without a fuss?”

“Well, the—you know the parable of the prodigal son—”

“We both know they don’t read that stuff. Alright, what else did you imagine? What would I do up there, sing celestial harmonies till my throat gets sore? Polish up all the white surfaces so they’re appropriately blinding?” He made a beckoning gesture. “Come on, I want to hear it. I’m waiting.”

Aziraphale’s head spun. He had never expected that Crowley might not _want_ to be an angel again, to go up to a cleaner office and report to a different set of bureaucrats and maybe even make stars again. The worst part was that it made sense. But—Crowley must not have understood what it would mean. Surely he would be willing to change if he just thought about it, if he realized… “Crowley, we could—we could be on the same side.”

Crowley stopped, looking at the ground off to the side. Aziraphale’s spirits rose. He must be considering it. They both wanted the same thing, after all, surely Crowley must see that—

Crowley looked up at him. “I would never try to make you Fall.”

It was like a punch to the stomach. All the breath left him.

“Don’t pretend that’s what this is about.” Crowley took a few steps towards him, so that he didn’t need to raise his voice. “I don’t need forgiveness, not from Her.” He stopped, still ten feet away. Aziraphale forgot they were on a busy sidewalk with people walking around them and cars speeding by. His eyes were locked onto Crowley. “But you’ll never forgive me for Falling.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “I—Crowley, I hardly have the power—”

“I’m not talking about _reversing_ it,” Crowley snapped. “I’m a demon. It’s what I am, I can’t help that any more than you can help being an angel. But I’ll never be good enough for you, will I?”

Something constricted around his throat. Of course Crowley was good enough, he was one of the best people Aziraphale knew, but… “Well, you’re a _demon,_ Crowley,” he said, his voice high and choked.

Crowley’s mouth set itself into a hard line. He nodded once. “S’what I thought. Well.” With an odd shrugging gesture, he turned and walked away.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale was going to have tea with Crowley, and then perhaps dinner, and then they would retire to the bookshop and have a sensible discussion about how to proceed with saving Crowley’s soul. He hadn’t thought—
> 
> Well. He hadn’t thought, had he?

Aziraphale didn’t know how long he stood there on the pavement after Crowley left, feeling sick and numb and directionless. Long enough that passersby started giving him odd looks, and one kind-hearted woman looked into his face with concern and asked if he was feeling alright. He shook himself, said something about being out of sorts, and walked off towards the park, more to have somewhere to go than anything else. At least at the park, it was acceptable to sit down and spend some time there to think. He didn’t know what do besides sit and hope the feeling returned to his limbs.

The sun was still shining, somehow, and a pleasant breeze ruffled the trees. It should have been a good day. He was going to have tea with Crowley, and then perhaps dinner, and then they would retire to the bookshop and have a sensible discussion about how to proceed with saving Crowley’s soul. He hadn’t thought—

Well. He hadn’t thought, had he?

He sat down on a park bench and looked blankly out at the people walking their dogs and playing with their children and enjoying the sunshine, and thought, for perhaps the first time, about how Crowley might feel about all this. He thought about how seldom, if ever, Crowley had shown discomfort about the fact that Aziraphale was an angel. He thought about how he might feel if he discovered that his best friend was trying to recruit him for the other side.

His stomach turned over, and he clenched his hands into fists. It was too late, and he had already ruined things. Perhaps, if he could get Crowley to calm down and listen, he could convince—

No, it was that sort of thinking that had gotten him here. He clasped his hands tightly and sat there for a long time to let the reality sink in. _Crowley doesn’t want to be saved,_ he told himself over and over again, in the hopes that it might eventually hurt less. It was the simple truth. He needed to accept it.

Michael would not.

Aziraphale griped his hands so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Crowley didn’t know that his life was in danger, or that Aziraphale had been asked to kill him if he didn’t change sides. Perhaps they could still figure something out. Most of Heaven’s fury would come down on Aziraphale for failing to follow orders, and if they wanted to find him, there was nowhere in any world that he would be safe. But maybe Crowley could escape, or hide somewhere, or find a way to defend himself if they found him. Aziraphale was starting to understand why Crowley had asked him for holy water. He would have given a lot, at that moment, for a bottle of hellfire, or even just the knowledge that Crowley had it at his disposal.

The idea of talking to Crowley again, right now, after that confrontation in the street, made him feel ill, but he needed to do it soon. Crowley was slated to go to America next week. Aziraphale could wait perhaps a day, to give him time to cool off, and then…No, he needed to catch Crowley before he went to sleep without setting an alarm, and he had already lost most of the rest of the day sitting in the park. It had to be now.

Drawing a deep breath, Aziraphale put to use centuries of practice tucking all his emotions away. With a great effort, he got to his feet and went to the street to hail a taxi to Mayfair. Hopefully the last few hours had been long enough for Crowley to have calmed down a bit. Hopefully it hadn’t been long enough for him to have gone to sleep. Hopefully they could have this conversation without Aziraphale doing any more damage.

He knocked on the door to Crowley’s flat and waited for an answer, his heart pounding and hands fidgeting. He could hear movement on the other side of the door, so at least Crowley was awake. “Crowley? It’s, um…it’s me.”

There was a pause. “What do you want?” Crowley asked through the door. “Come to check on your pet project?”

Aziraphale’s throat clenched. “No, I…I came to check on my friend.” He glanced nervously around the empty hallway. “We need to talk, please, if you’ll let me in.”

“About what? Seems to me we’ve talked enough. Goodbye, Aziraphale.”

He could hear Crowley’s footsteps moving away from the door. “Michael knows,” he called.

There was a pause. The door cracked open and Crowley looked out, pale and tense. “Knows what?”

“She has photographs of us,” said Aziraphale. “I think…I think she knows that we’re…” He swallowed, searching for the right word to express what they were to each other.

“Fraternizing?”

Crowley’s voice was cold. Aziraphale blinked away the beginning of tears, and nodded.

Crowley pulled the door open. “Come in.”

Aziraphale folded his hands behind his back and stepped stiffly inside. “She approached me last July. I was lucky she gave me a chance to explain myself.”

“Oh. No problem there, then. You just told her you were…” Crowley trailed off and waved vaguely, looking somewhere below and to the left of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Told her ‘bout your…plan. For me.”

“Well, she told me.”

Crowley frowned and looked at him questioningly.

“Oh, just… ‘I’m sure nobody could fault you if you were only trying to redeem the demon. That was your plan, right?’ That sort of thing.” Aziraphale swallowed. “Except she put me on a deadline. Something about limiting resources. If, if I don’t succeed by next summer…”

“Last July,” Crowley interrupted. “Michael approached you last July?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“And…before that?” Crowley’s voice sounded small.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. If Crowley had thought he had been trying to convert him all this time, if he thought that was why Aziraphale tolerated him at all and talked to him and kept coming back… “No. No, Crowley, no—The possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind before Michael brought it up, truly. No.”

Crowley relaxed just a little bit. Aziraphale’s heart convulsed. He had hoped Crowley trusted him more than that. But then, Crowley had trusted him enough to ask him for holy water, and Aziraphale had let him down then, too. And he had already made it clear, before he had stopped to think about the implications, that he would prefer Crowley as an angel. How long would he have tried, if he had thought of the idea earlier?

“Bet you thought it was a perfect little idea, didn’t you?” Crowley muttered. “It’s been a whole year. All that time—” He shook his head. Aziraphale could practically see the last few months playing out behind those sunglasses, the new frequency of their meetings in the summer and fall, the good deeds Crowley had done while Aziraphale was ill, their Christmas date which had made Crowley so happy…

“Er.” Aziraphale looked away. “I-I thought—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Aziraphale.” Crowley turned to walk deeper into his flat. He gave no indication that he wanted Aziraphale to follow, but neither did he tell him to leave, so Aziraphale trailed behind Crowley at a cautious distance. “Should’ve just told me Michael was blackmailing you,” Crowley said in a flat voice, leading Aziraphale into his study, and over to his desk. “It’s common practice in hell to keep dirt on your coworkers." He knelt to open the bottom drawer, took out everything inside, and stacked it on top of the desk. Aziraphale watched the growing pile and mentally inventoried it, so he wouldn’t have to look at Crowley. Several reams of cardstock, a stapler, a few bottles of super glue, a glasses repair kit…There was a scraping sound as Crowley pulled up the bottom of the now-empty drawer and took out one of two magnetic tape reels hidden in the space underneath. “I’ve been taping Ligur’s phone calls for years,” he said, getting to his feet and handing the reel to Aziraphale. “He’s Michael’s downstairs contact. Maybe she’ll leave you alone if she knows you have this.”

Aziraphale almost burst into tears. It might have worked, if he had come to Crowley immediately. Now all four archangels were expecting a report on Crowley’s progress towards salvation. His assignment had been made official, and documented. Threatening Michael alone wouldn’t fix any of that. “I don’t know…”

“Take it,” Crowley snapped, thrusting the tape at him. “It’s something _,_ at least.”

Aziraphale flinched at the unspoken accusation that he hadn’t even tried to think of another way out of this. He had been too distracted by lovely daydreams about Crowley as an angel. It had never even occurred to him, in all this time, that that would not have been the same Crowley. He nodded and took the reel with shaking hands. “You should get somewhere safe, Crowley. Someplace where I won’t know where you are. I don’t know whether they’ll come after you, but…”

Crowley nodded. “I’ll watch my back. And you?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he would do. He couldn’t fake Crowley’s redemption, and Michael would expect him to return the empty bottle once he had finished with the holy water. When he didn’t, they would put him on trial, and perhaps he could craft some kind of defense, but he doubted that the other angels would take kindly to him associating with a demon. Perhaps he could tell them that it was love, and what could be wrong with love? But he knew better than anyone what could go wrong with it, having seen how humans hurt themselves and each other in love over and over and over again for six thousand years. “I’ll…I’ll think of something,” he said.

“You said you’ve got a year?”

He nodded. He could have had fifty years, and he didn’t think it would have made much difference. He wanted to tell Crowley not to worry about him, except that was the surest way to make sure the demon did. “I’m sorry, Crowley,” he said, as sincerely as he knew how. “I’m so sorry.”

Crowley didn’t brush off the apology as he usually did. Aziraphale couldn’t even tell if he believed it. “Right. Take care, _angel_.”

The last word didn’t have the same ring as it usually did. It sounded like an insult, somehow. An accusation. A reminder of how different they were. Aziraphale wanted to say something more comforting, or perhaps kinder, since this might be the last time they ever saw each other. He didn’t know if Crowley wanted to hear any of the things he might have said. He nodded, his fingers wrapping more tightly around the tape reel. “Goodbye.”

Shadwell called later in the week to tell Aziraphale that Crowley had gotten in his car with a suitcase, driven towards the airport, and had not come back. “Good,” he said absently. The further Crowley was from Aziraphale, the safer he would be. Maybe he could even tell the archangels that his target had disappeared, so he had no way of completing his assignment, either by saving him or killing him. They might ask him to scour the Earth for Crowley, but he could always simply come back empty-handed. The best outcome, right now, would be if he never saw Crowley again.

“Sair?” said Shadwell. Aziraphale had been quiet for a few seconds too long.

“Er—Good to know, I mean.” He cleared his throat. Part of him wanted to congratulate Shadwell on having finally reported one of the things Aziraphale had actually asked him to look for, but he didn’t. “Thank you, Lance Corporal. If Crowley has left London, I don’t believe these regular reports will be necessary anymore.”

“Should ah keep watch for his return?”

Aziraphale considered for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, I think it would be for the best if you didn’t.” The less he knew about Crowley’s whereabouts, the better.

Time had flown by before, rushing towards the two-year, deadline, but now it crawled. Aziraphale made himself sick again, and without Crowley there to ease his mind, the recovery took much longer. He wished he could wake up on the sofa and find some treat left for him by Crowley, as he had last time he was ill, or perhaps Crowley himself, ready with a joke like nothing had happened. He had a dream that Crowley was watching over him from the armchair, and he smiled at Aziraphale, said, “Got a little surprise for you, angel,” and pulled off his sunglasses. His beautiful golden snake-eyes were gone, replaced with empty holes. “What do you think? Better?” Aziraphale woke up screaming in a cold sweat, and resolved never to try sleeping again.

Instead of reporting to heaven at the beginning of the autumn quarter, he sent a message upstairs that he was indisposed, and then he placed a phone order for a large chocolate cake to be delivered to the bookshop and ate the entire thing himself. Guilt gnawed at him afterwards. He should have gone to the meeting and told them that his target had disappeared. They would either believe him, or they wouldn’t, but at least then he would know. Then again, if he showed up in heaven in his current condition, Gabriel would probably throw a box of Kleenex at him and suggest that he get that disgusting mass of malfunctioning tissue and fluids out of his pristine office space.

He did his best to recover before the next meeting. He read books that did not focus on redemption, and saw redemption arcs in them anyway. He tried learning to knit for the sixteenth time so he could make hats for a charity organization, but gave up, also for the sixteenth time, when his first four attempts only produced weird trapezoids. He opened the shop, mostly so that he could deter any potential customers with his sneezes, but some of his regular visitors dropped in too and insisted he close up and get some rest before they fled. One young student that Aziraphale had helped with his English research came by for more help, and when he saw the state Aziraphale was in he ran off and returned the next day with a container of hot potato soup. “My aunt’s recipe,” he said, when Aziraphale looked at the soup in bewilderment. “I swear that stuff’s magic. Consider it thanks for helping me with my term paper last year.”

Aziraphale thanked him with a bleary smile, and promised to help the young man out with whatever he needed as soon as he was feeling better. The soup was delicious, but the only healing powers it had were of the ordinary, human sort of magic. That was something in itself, though. Slowly, he started to get better.

He didn’t know why he was still worrying in the first place. It was already over. Crowley was gone, and presumably (hopefully) safe, and if Aziraphale simply informed the archangels of that, they could not fault him for anything other than having foolishly believed that a demon could be saved. They already thought him a fool, so that would be nothing new.

Halloween didn’t feel right without Crowley and his wiles out there in London somewhere, and he hoped Crowley had found his way out of any summoning circles he’d been called to. On bonfire night, Aziraphale walked down by the Thames to eat a toffee apple and watch the fireworks in the hope of distracting himself. Instead, he found himself thinking about how excited Crowley had been when humans first invented fireworks, and how disappointed he had been when they started using gunpowder to hurt each other instead, even if it did get him a commendation. The toffee apple crunched like glass under Aziraphale’s teeth as little stars exploded over the Thames. He had wondered once if Crowley liked fireworks because they reminded him of his previous job. He threw away half of the toffee apple uneaten and walked home.

December was a blur, as usual. Aziraphale overdecorated the bookshop, drank more cocoa than would have been healthy for a human, shared some cocoa with random people outside so nobody could accuse him of gluttony, slipped on the ice while carrying a mug of hot cocoa and gave a few passersby something to laugh about, bought himself a thermos so that wouldn’t happen again, convinced some people to be kind to their more aggravating family members, or at least put up with them, assured others that they had no obligation whatsoever to spend the holidays with a family who treated them like _that,_ took a snowball to the back of the head from a boy who immediately resolved to apologize to everyone he had ever bullied, and added yet another tree to the bookshop because they were all on sale after Christmas day and he hadn’t been paying attention to the calendar. And then it was January.

He couldn’t miss two meetings in a row, so on New Years Day he marched up to heaven and told the archangels that, regrettably, the demon known as Anthony was nowhere to be found on Earth, so he would be unable to complete his assignment. They believed him. Gabriel had a talk with him about completing his objectives (“I’m sure you’re not _trying_ to be a disappointment, Aziraphale”), while Sandalphon glowered at him in silence. More charitably, Uriel suggested extending his deadline, in case the demon turned up again, since it would be the same number of angel-hours if Aziraphale took a break in the middle, and Michael couldn’t find any flaws with this logic. Aziraphale suffered through their criticisms, and told them that an extension would not be necessary.

It wasn’t that bad, when he got used to Crowley’s absence. They had gone for centuries before without seeing one another. And perhaps they would see each other, someday, decades or centuries from now when Michael had forgotten all about those photographs. Perhaps she could be convinced to trade them for the reel of recorded telephone calls to hell. Aziraphale and Crowley would just have to make sure that no photographs like that got into heaven’s files again. So maybe they wouldn’t see each other again. It was optimistic to assume that Crowley would want to after this, anyway.

Life slowly returned to normal. Aziraphale got back into his regular rhythm of blessings and miracles and encouraging goodness in humans, without any demonic wiles to thwart. The bookshop was too quiet, so he bought some new classical records to listen to. There was no one to sit on the sofa, so he drowned it in quilts and throw pillows to make it look less empty. Crowley was safe, and that was what mattered. He was on the other side of the world, or perhaps even in hell, where no angels, Aziraphale included, could hurt him anymore. He would be better off.

And then Crowley came back.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The sergeant told me ye would like me tae resume my previous observation of yer friend. Ye were right tae do so, Mr. Fell.” Shadwell lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Mr. Crowley is up tae no good.”

Aziraphale could not possibly have heard Michael correctly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, I’ve received word that your Opponent has returned to London.”

No, that couldn’t be right. Crowley knew exactly how dangerous it was. He knew Aziraphale’s deadline was only three months away. Aziraphale fought to keep his face clear of terror, and probably failed. “Are you certain?”

Michael raised one thin eyebrow. “My sources are always reliable.”

To hell with her and her sources. At least one of them was already there. But wait, she hadn’t actually specified that it was Crowley who had returned to London, so maybe he had swapped positions with another demon in hell. Aziraphale hated the idea of Crowley stuck down there, with, he imagined, fire all around his cubicle and damned souls screeching so loudly he couldn’t hear himself think, but as long as he wasn’t in harm’s way…

“That’s good news,” said Uriel. “You’ll be able to continue your suspended assignment.”

Aziraphale laughed nervously. “W-well, only if it’s the same demon.” He silently begged Michael not to tell him whether or not it was the same demon.

“I haven’t heard of any personnel changes,” said Michael. “It is likely. Aziraphale, perhaps you should check.”

“What difference does it make?” asked Sandalphon. “A demon is a demon. I say kill it either way.”

“You did say last time that you wouldn’t need an extension to complete the project,” Gabriel reminded Aziraphale. “Does that mean you no longer believe the demon who calls itself Anthony can be saved?”

They were all looking at him. He squirmed, and looked everywhere but back at them. “I-I don’t know if I can answer that at this time,” he choked.

They exchanged impatient looks. “Well, answer it soon,” said Uriel.

“You’ve lost, what, one quarter?” said Gabriel. “If you think you can still redeem it, you’ll have until October.”

Right, because Aziraphale had waited six months before telling them Crowley had left London. “One more quarter,” he muttered. “Grand.”

“I think,” said Michael, looking at the other archangels before her glance came to rest sharply on Aziraphale, “it would be wise to complete this as soon as possible.”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded. “Of course, of course.” He couldn’t stop his eyes from flitting towards the escalator. “Perhaps I should get right on that? Now?”

“That’s the kind of attitude we like to see!” said Gabriel. “Always nice to see a motivated angel.”

“Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale smiled, edging away from them. “Jolly good. I’ll just be on my way.”

It took all his willpower to keep from sprinting to the escalator. He needed to—He didn’t know. Find Crowley? Not find Crowley? Either way, the archangels would expect him to deliver either a bottle empty of holy water, or a new angel, and he couldn’t do either of those things. Perhaps hell had sent a different demon after all. Could Aziraphale bring himself to destroy them, instead, and then show the archangels the empty bottle? If it was someone Crowley had mentioned who had made life difficult for him, perhaps, but even then, holy water was a bit drastic. Aziraphale had discorporated demons before, and that was distasteful enough, but to permanently murder one…

The taxi ride to the bookshop was far too long, and for once, he actually missed Crowley’s mad driving. He almost forgot to tip the driver, and had to run back when he was halfway to the door. When he burst into the shop, he buried himself in one of its hidden nooks, pressed his back to the wall and tried to breathe evenly, and couldn’t. Even the bookshop’s familiar, musty scent didn’t calm him. He needed to do _something,_ he needed to—

He ran to the back of the shop and pulled the rug off of the summoning circle he’d drawn. He could contact someone higher up right now, try to get an audience with the Almighty, and argue for Crowley’s soul. He could still fix this. He could still find a way out of this that didn’t end with Crowley getting destroyed—

His hands clenched and unclenched in mid-air. It felt like someone was slowly pulling him apart into several pieces. He could do it. He shouldn’t, Crowley wouldn’t want that, he would never forgive—But if he didn’t—

Aziraphale let out a choked sound, covered his mouth with both hands and ran to his armchair. He couldn’t. Crowley _didn’t want to be saved,_ and Aziraphale had already hurt him just by suggesting that idea. He couldn’t dredge that up again. He couldn’t force it on Crowley.

When he sat down in his chair he was shaking all over. Maybe Crowley wasn’t even here. Or maybe he had stopped by for a day or two to get his things from his flat, and would leave soon enough for Aziraphale to have plausible deniability for failing to find him. Maybe Aziraphale could discorporate himself, and claim Crowley had fought back when an angel came at him with holy water. There had to be _something_ he could do _._

He stumbled to the phone, dialed half of Crowley’s number and stopped. Crowley didn’t want to talk to him, and if he hadn’t moved out of London by now Aziraphale probably couldn’t convince him to. He dug the address book out of his desk and fumbled with the pages as he flipped through. The way his hands were shaking made it difficult to dial the number, but he managed it, and the phone started to ring.

“Hullo?”

“S-sergeant Siftings, hello. It’s me. Mr. Fell.”

“Ah, good to hear from you, Fell. Keeping well, I hope?”

“Er—Yes, I—Listen, I wanted to know if any of your men had noticed any signs of demonic activity in London.”

“ _Demonic?_ ” Siftings repeated. “Good God, I hope not. Do you have reason to expect any?”

That was bad news. A new demon probably would have been more noticeable than Crowley, who had managed to stay under the WA’s radar for this long. “Is Lance Corporal Shadwell available? I would like—I may need him to poke about in London some more.”

“He’s very good at that,” said Siftings. “Though I’m not sure he’s prepared to go toe-to-toe with an actual living demon. Witches, he could handle, but—”

“He won’t have to,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “No demons, anywhere in London. Forget I said that. This is another perfectly mundane task I simply don’t have the right skills for.”

“Which is?”

“The…the same as before. I’d like him to observe someone. Or, track someone down. Find out where they are.” He swallowed. “Tell him it’s the same target as before.”

He reassured Sergeant Siftings a few more times that demons were not trying to invade London, and then hung up and drew a deep breath. Shadwell would turn up nothing. He had to. He _had_ to, or Aziraphale didn’t know what he would do.

When the phone started to ring, Aziraphale pretended he didn’t hear it. He went to the coat rack to put on his jacket and take a walk, so he could have an excuse for missing the call, but he couldn’t very well leave the shop with customers inside, and it would take several minutes to kick everyone out. With a sigh, he put down his coat and walked to the back room to look at the telephone. It had been a week, which didn’t seem like long enough for Shadwell to be confident that Crowley was out of town, if it was Shadwell calling, which it might not be. There was only one way to find out. Aziraphale picked up the phone. “A. Z. Fell’s?”

“Hallo, Mr. Fell.”

His heart sank. His free hand clutched at the phone cord. “Lance Corporal Shadwell.”

“Aye. The sergeant told me ye would like me tae resume my previous observation of yer friend.”

“M-my—” Aziraphale swallowed the instinctive denial that he and Crowley barely knew each other. Shadwell had already seen them together multiple times. “Yes. And?”

“Ye were right tae do so, Mr. Fell.” Shadwell lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Mr. Crowley is up tae no good.”

“You’ve seen him?” His grip on the phone cord tightened. He tangled it around his fingers hard enough to cut off the circulation. “When? Where?”

“The usual seedy sort of pubs. Dark places, for plotting dark—”

“Can you get a message to him for me?”

“Will ye nae let me finish, Mr. Fell? He plans tae—”

“I don’t care what he’s planning, Lance Corporal,” Aziraphale burst out. “Please shut up, I need you to—”

“—Tae rob a chairch,” Shadwell finished. “And that’s a sure sign of evil, that is.”

Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. He could no longer feel the fingers that were wrapped up in the phone cord. “What?”

“Aye. As I said, a sign o’ something dark fer certain.”

“What church?” Aziraphale felt dizzy. He needed to pull his chair over and sit down, but his hand shook too much for him to disentangle it from the cord. The phone cradle rattled across the surface of the desk as he tugged on it. “Where did you hear this? Are you quite certain—”

“O’ coorse I’m certain.” Shadwell sounded offended. “He’s assemblin’ a team. I heard about it from Diceman, a close acquaintance o’ the late Mr. Narker, who Mr. Crowley tried to recruit as a locksman. And I knew Diceman from—Well, that’s nae important. The point is, I’m certain.”

No, no, no, no. Aziraphale’s fingers wound somehow even more tightly around the taut phone cord. Not a church, where nearly everything could hurt Crowley with a mere touch. The last time Crowley had been inside a church, his feet had been in such pain— _Look at that,_ he’d said, _a whole fontful of holy water_ —

There was a plastic ripping noise, and a snap. “Stop him,” Aziraphale blurted out. “Can you stop him, talk him out of—” His breathing was erratic. Feeling returned to his fingers in the form of pins and needles. If Crowley wouldn’t listen to Aziraphale, he definitely wouldn’t listen to an unfamiliar witchfinder. “Nevermind. Forget I said—”

“They’re meetin’ tomorrow night at the Dirty Donkey. Are ye alright, Mr. Fell?”

“Yes,” he lied. “Yes, just—Quite—” He flexed his fingers to work some blood into them. All the tension in the phone cord was gone. He looked down and realized that he had ripped the cord out of the cradle.

The line went dead as soon as he realized that the phone wasn’t connected. He dropped the phone, pulled the coils off his fingers, and backed away until he hit the sofa and sank into it.

There was only one thing Crowley could be looking for inside a church. Aziraphale clasped his hands together and struggled to breathe normally. Churches were protected against demons. Crowley had been lucky that he hadn’t touched anything except the floor last time. There could be people inside, prepared to fight the creatures of Satan, armed with the one thing in all creation that could completely wipe Crowley out of existence—

—His fever-dream leapt up at him, Crowley smiling, asking Aziraphale to just kill him and be done with it—

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Crowley didn’t even know whether the angels would come for him. He should have trusted Aziraphale to handle it. He should have stayed away, like Aziraphale had asked. He couldn’t just take the easy way out—

_That’s not what I want it for, just insurance._

It was possible hell would come for him, if Michael told her Downstairs contact about his betrayal, but he didn’t _need_ holy water if that happened. He could just use the same excuse Aziraphale had, and tell them he was trying to tempt an angel into falling. If that stubborn fool had just listened to Aziraphale, and let him save his soul like he’d planned, Aziraphale would have given him all the holy water he could ever need—

_I would never try to make you fall._

But hadn’t Aziraphale wished for hellfire to protect himself and Crowley multiple times in the last month? He’d never asked for it, and he would never put Crowley through the same nightmare thoughts he’d had when Crowley first asked him for holy water, the same thoughts he was now having all over again—

It didn’t matter what Aziraphale said, Crowley would never give up his search for holy water, and maybe he needed it now more than ever. _Insurance._ He’d be careful, oh, God, Aziraphale hoped he’d be careful, but Crowley setting foot inside a church—He couldn’t have that. He couldn’t risk losing Crowley over something the demon only wanted to protect himself. None of this would be happening if he had just trusted Crowley and given him what he asked for a century ago.

He stumbled into the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and shoved the pasta boxes aside. He could still keep Crowley out of that church. The bottle of holy water stood in the back of the cabinet, glimmering even in the shadows. Aziraphale’s heart hammered in his ears. He snatched up the bottle.

Would demons even be allowed to use heaven-made objects? He wouldn’t mind so much if Crowley was unable to empty the bottle, but considering that it was specifically intended to harm him—In his mind’s eye he saw the bottle shattering under the demon’s touch, dousing Crowley with its contents, and a scream, and then—Better not risk it. His thermos was already in the sink where he’d left it after finishing his tea, so he gave it a quick rinse before he uncorked the holy water and tipped it into the thermos. The water resisted for a moment, and Aziraphale bit his lip, afraid that the bottle wouldn’t let him empty it. Then water sloshed out of the bottle's thin mouth in a series of _glugs_. Aziraphale held it overturned above the thermos until it was completely drained and shook out the last few drops. His hands trembled as he washed them, screwed on the lid, and wiped down the exterior of the thermos with three different dishrags, rinsing in between. He set it on the countertop at a safe distance from the now-empty holy water bottle. Tomorrow night, Shadwell had said. He would go to the bar Shadwell had mentioned, look for Crowley’s Bentley, and wait until he could talk to the demon alone—

His eyes returned to the bottle. It was empty. He had emptied it. His eyes widened, and he drew a slow breath.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

They had a way out of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! It was canon compliant the whole time!
> 
> I'm probably going to repeat this again, but a HUGE thank you to everyone who's read this far! Seriously, y'all are champs to keep dealing with the amount of angst I've been pumping out. You've almost made it to the happy ending! Just one more stretch of angst left to go!


	14. Chapter 14

The thermos felt heavier in Aziraphale’s hands than it should have as he loitered down the street from the bar. A few people gave him odd looks, and he smiled at them nervously. Shadwell had been right about this place being seedy. Aziraphale, in his waistcoat and tartan ascot, felt very out of place among all the neon lights and plastered bar patrons.

Crowley walked out of the bar.

Aziraphale always forgot, somehow, how it felt to see Crowley after a long time. The past seven months might as well have been years. Crowley hadn’t even changed his haircut from that John Lemon mop-top, and somehow Aziraphale still wasn’t completely prepared to see him. The last time they had spoken…

_I’ll never be good enough for you, will I?_

His grip on the holy water tightened. It would be alright, he could tell the archangels he had killed the demon, and Crowley would be unharmed and wouldn’t need to go senselessly risking his life in churches. He’d be safe. He might never want to talk to Aziraphale again, but he’d be safe.

With a deep breath, Aziraphale tucked the thermos into his inner jacket pocket and started walking towards Crowley. Crowley had stopped to talk to someone, and hopefully it would take a while because Aziraphale was not walking fast and couldn’t make himself go any faster. The thermos sloshed in his pocket. Every step took its contents closer to the demon it was intended to destroy, the demon that Aziraphale needed more than anything else to keep safe, and continuing to walk towards him went against every instinct Aziraphale had.

Crowley had wrapped up his conversation, and was crossing the street to the Bentley. Soon, he would get inside and start the car and rocket away like a Crowley out of hell, and once he got going he’d be too fast for Aziraphale to stop him. He needed to hurry, but his feet didn’t want to do this either, and even if he ran he didn’t think he could catch up—

Crowley opened the door. Aziraphale held his breath and miracled himself into the passenger seat.

Crowley looked at him and stopped moving. Aziraphale turned placidly toward him as if they hadn’t shouted at each other the last time they had seen each other, and neither of them was terrified of retribution from their bosses, and neither of them was worrying about the other’s life and safety. Like this was a perfectly normal, and perfectly expected, meeting. _Oh, hello. Fancy meeting you here, inside your own car. How’s your health?_

“What are you doing here?” Crowley asked.

“I needed a word with you.”

Crowley didn’t look angry or upset, at least. He mostly looked surprised. “What?”

“I work in Soho, I hear things.” Aziraphale’s voice rose more than he intended. He took a moment to bring it back under control. “I hear that you’re setting up a…” He couldn’t think of a less accusatory way to say “suicide mission.” “…caper,” he finished. “To rob a church.”

Crowley looked away, already putting up his defenses. He didn’t say anything. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, after what had happened last time they’d had this conversation.

“Crowley, it’s too dangerous,” he begged. “Holy water won’t just kill your body, it will destroy you completely.”

“You told me what you think, a hundred and five years ago—”

“And I haven’t changed my mind,” said Aziraphale, to make it clear that he no longer believed holy water might someday be harmless to Crowley. He paused to take a breath. “But I can’t have you risking your life. Not even for something dangerous. So…” He drew the thermos out of his jacket and held it up carefully, as if it might spill, even though the lid was tightly screwed on and he had checked it for leaks a dozen times before he left. His throat clenched. A whole bottleful of holy water, just inches away from Crowley…He forced himself to swallow and reminded himself why this was necessary. “You can call off the robbery.”

Crowley looked up at the thermos, and his spine straightened. He looked up at Aziraphale, then at the thermos, then back at Aziraphale, his eyebrows raised in shock, or amazement, or maybe a question.

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley drew a small breath and reached gingerly for the thermos with both hands. Only a thin layer of plastic, now, between Crowley and complete obliteration. He turned the thermos over in his hands as if he had never seen one before, touching it only with his fingertips, cradling it like it was something priceless. “It’s the real thing?”

“The holiest.” Now that Aziraphale’s hands were empty, the heaviness of the holy water seemed to have settled in his chest.

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale as if he’d never seen him before, either. “After everything you said.”

He nodded stiffly. He couldn’t look at Crowley, he couldn’t glance over and see his own tartan thermos in the demon’s hands and know that it could kill him—It wouldn’t, Crowley wouldn’t do that to himself or to Aziraphale, but if he looked he’d only see the thousand ways that thermos might crack open or be knocked over or leak—

“…Should I say thank you?” Crowley asked.

It wasn’t a _gift_. It wasn’t just some favor, even if Crowley had called it that when he’d first asked. He couldn’t have known what he was asking of Aziraphale. “Better not.”

“Well, should I…drop you anywhere?”

Something hurt in Aziraphale’s chest. He’d been awful and thoughtless to Crowley, snuck around behind his back, hidden things from him, tried to change him without stopping to ask whether that was what he wanted. They had fought just a few months ago, and Crowley was still so courteous… “No, thank you,” he forced himself to say. It was dangerous to be around each other. They didn’t need any more photographic evidence of their acquaintance.

Crowley’s face fell. With a start, Aziraphale realized that Crowley still thought Aziraphale was facing down a deadline he couldn’t meet. He thought they might never see each other again.

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps one day, we could…I don’t know. Go for a picnic.” He smiled to himself. “Dine at the Ritz.” One day, when he knew they were safe, and that Michael was no longer looking through heaven’s files. But for now…

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale, his head tilted and his eyebrows drawn up hopefully, and Aziraphale knew he meant _I love you_ even if neither of them could say it.

Aziraphale wanted to say it back to him so much that it physically hurt. He wanted to go back to the bookshop like they always did, crack open a bottle of wine, or something stronger, and tell Crowley how sorry he was about everything, and have a chance to make it up to him, or at least try…

It was too dangerous. They couldn’t be seen together for a decade, at least, and several would probably be safer. If he gave Crowley hope, the demon would just keep coming back, and as much as he wanted that he couldn’t allow it. He had already refused once, perhaps too gently. If he was more decisive, he didn’t think Crowley would ask again. All he had to say was “no.”

What he said instead was, “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” and then got out of the car and left.

Aziraphale knocked on the door to Michael’s office. The empty bottle in his pocket weighed practically nothing. His eyes hurt. They were probably still red around the edges. It had only been a day since he had given away the holy water, and if the way he felt was any indication, he probably looked a wreck. He was counting on it. He didn’t know of any better way to convince Michael that he had actually killed Crowley.

The murmur of Michael’s voice drifted through the closed door, too muffled to make out any of the words. Perhaps she was on the phone with her “reliable contact.” She called out for him to wait a moment, and continued her conversation. Aziraphale closed his hands into fists and hid them behind his back, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He wished heaven had more things to look at. The archangel’s offices blocked the view of the window on this side.

Michael ended her call, and the door opened. “Aziraphale,” she said, with her usual cursory glance at him. She did a double take, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “Good gracious.”

He must look worse than he thought. “Michael,” he greeted her with a nod and a fleeting smile as he stepped inside.

Michael looked like she was trying to decide whether she ought to be worried. “What’s this about?”

In answer, Aziraphale took the empty bottle out of his jacket pocket and set it on the desk. It could not have been emptied except with the intent to use its contents, and no sensible angel had any use for holy water besides exterminating demons. Aziraphale, in classic fashion, had simply given it away.

Surprise, and then satisfaction, filled Michael’s eyes as she looked at the bottle. She nodded. “You’ve done the right thing, Aziraphale.”

“I know.” His voice was too hoarse. He cleared his throat and addressed Michael’s desk. “Could you, ah, give my update to the other archangels?”

She nodded sympathetically, took the bottle, and tucked it into a cabinet beside her desk. “They will be pleased as well.”

They probably would. Sandalphon would be particularly gleeful about the destruction of a demon, and Gabriel would probably slap Aziraphale on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his teeth at the next quarterly report. Uriel had supported Crowley’s conversion, but only because of how it would hurt hell, and she would probably celebrate a demon’s destruction as much as the rest of them. Crowley was worth more than all of them put together, and they had no idea.

“Is that all?” said Michael. “Perhaps you should, ah, rest your corporation. It’s looking a little…tired.”

Aziraphale swallowed. They weren’t safe just yet. Michael might still discover his lie. Since she had only ever referred to Crowley as “the Opposition,” Aziraphale doubted she even knew his name, so when she heard reports of a demon sent to oppose Aziraphale, she would probably assume that hell had sent a replacement. As long as she didn’t go through the Earth observation files again, and find photos of Crowley alive and well, he and Aziraphale would be safe. But, slim as it was, there was still a chance that the lie could deteriorate. “There was one other thing.” He reached into his other pocket, which he had miracled larger for the occasion, and pulled out the tape reel that Crowley had given him.

He set it on the desk, and Michael stared at it blankly. She let out a small laugh. “Am I supposed to know what this is?”

“Humans have invented a way to store audio on magnetic tape,” Aziraphale explained. “They wrap it up in reels like these, and they have these large machines to turn the reel and while it records whatever sound is nearby.” He made a motion to signify a rotating wheel. “Ingenious, really. They record once, and they can play it back countless times. Recently, they’ve even started making them small enough to carry around in your pocket, though this particular one is an older model.”

Her eyes flicked between Aziraphale and the reel, trying to work out where this was headed and getting nowhere. “Humans build many devices.”

“They certainly do.” Aziraphale nodded at the sleek white touch-tone phone on Michael’s desk. “Like this telephone, for example. It turns the sounds of speech into electrical signals, not unlike what’s stored on that magnetic tape reel.” He met her eyes steadily. “Not unlike at all, in fact.”

Michael’s eyes widened as she made the connection. She took half a step back from the desk. For the first time Aziraphale could remember, she looked frightened.

Aziraphale’s eyes still hurt, and his hands were still tense behind his back, but he had never felt so powerful in front of an archangel before. If he played the tape for anyone else, he could get Michael demoted, or worse. Maybe she’d claim to have been following Aziraphale’s example. Maybe she’d have to spend the next year or two frantically trying to proselytize her demon contact over the phone, and get a taste of what she had put Aziraphale through.

He took the tape reel off her desk and tucked it back into his miracled jacket pocket. “I hope I don’t give you reason to doubt my loyalty again, Michael.”

She relaxed, barely, but it was noticeable. “I-I’m sure you won’t. You’ve completed your assignment to satisfaction.”

“Wonderful.” Aziraphale tried to smile. “Then, as you said, I believe my corporation could use a rest.” He opened the door and nodded as he left. “Thank you for your time.”

She had bought it. She thought Crowley was dead, and even if she figured out the truth, that audio reel would make her think twice before crossing Aziraphale again. Crowley was safe, and Aziraphale was safe, and at long last this nightmare was over. He stepped onto the escalator and let out an impossibly deep breath. It was a far cry from the happy ending he had hoped for. He had hurt Crowley, and exhausted himself, and even though he had already known they would never be together on the same side he mourned the loss of that fantasy. But, impossibly, they were both safe. He had outmaneuvered Michael. He should feel like he’d just won a battle.

Instead, he just felt tired. He was going to need a very good book, and a large cup of tea, or perhaps wine. Maybe that would keep him from feeling the absence of a certain demon across from him on the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go! Hopefully it'll fix at least a little bit of the angst I've created.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They needed to be careful, but neither of them had ever been very good at that.

Time went on. The archangels pretended to be sorry that Aziraphale hadn’t found a way to convert demons after all, and then congratulated him on tying up the loose ends. He wrote a letter to Crowley explaining that they were both out of danger for the time being, and didn’t hear back. That was a smart move on Crowley’s part, but part of Aziraphale wished the demon had taken the risk and replied. Or maybe there just wasn’t anything to say.

He was riding the bus a decade or so after it all happened, on his way to cross paths with a politician and subtly remind her that she’d gotten into politics to help people, when an unmistakable flash of red hair caught his eye. His heart lurched, and he focused intently on his newspaper, and not on the figure in black sidling down the aisle of the bus and sliding into the row behind him. The doors closed, and the bus trundled on.

Crowley didn’t speak until the bus reached its next stop and opened the doors. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Hello, Crowley,” he said to the newspaper.

“Been alright?”

_No,_ he might have said. _I miss you._ “Just fine. Yourself?”

“Still in one piece.”

The bus doors closed, and it started moving again. They lapsed into silence. Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time it had been awkward between him and Crowley. He wanted to turn around and see his friend’s face, but he didn’t know if he could look Crowley in the sunglasses without hearing _I’ll never be good enough for you_ in his mind. He could still hear the exact pitch and tone of Crowley’s _oh_ when he realized that he was Aziraphale’s target. It cut his heart every time.

The bus stopped at a traffic light. “Sssso,” Crowley hissed. “Haven’t heard anything from my lot.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Michael hasn’t said anything, either. Or any of the other archangels.”

“…How’d you…? Was it the audio reel?”

“Partially,” said Aziraphale. “I-I may have also faked your death. If I couldn’t succeed, I was to—with holy water.”

They both went quiet for a moment at the memory of their last meeting. “But that was never really an option,” Aziraphale added quietly.

The demon’s throat made a noise as he swallowed. “It’s locked away safe. I’ll be careful.”

Aziraphale nodded. He knew that, but it was good to hear nonetheless. If something happened, Aziraphale would never forgive Crowley. Or himself.

There was a rustling as Crowley shifted on the seat behind him. “Can’t help but notice it’sss been, what? Eleven, twelve years?”

“Twelve and a half.”

“Think we’re in the clear?”

Aziraphale blinked. He had gotten into the habit of reminding himself how unsafe it was to be seen near Crowley. He wasn’t sure when it might be safe for them to talk again, and thinking about it would only have made the temptation stronger. “Er.”

There was a pause. “Too fast,” Crowley mumbled behind him. “Right, just. Let me know about that picnic.” He cleared his throat, and the bus doors opened, even though they were stopped at an intersection two lanes away from the curb. “S’my ssstop.”

Aziraphale risked looking through the windows at Crowley’s dark silhouette slouching away between the stopped cars. “Picnic…?” He had promised Crowley a picnic, hadn’t he? Out of doors, where anyone could walk by and see them? It was far too risky. He’d said that in a different time, after a year spent believing that he and Crowley might someday be together. It had been a foolish dream.

It was also a difficult one to forget. Aziraphale crushed the newspaper into a ball to have something to do with his hands and tried not to think about picnics, until he missed his stop and his meeting with the politician, and the bus was empty, and the driver asked him to leave.

They needed to be careful, but neither of them had ever been very good at that. The meeting on the bus wasn’t the last time they “accidentally” bumped into each other. Half a decade later, they were seeing each other three or four times a year. Not long after that, they were back to roughly the same rhythm they’d had in the 1950s.

It was almost the same. Crowley was different, somehow, a little more reserved and careful. He joked less often about the Fall, and when he did it was with a scathing tone he hadn’t had before. He got quiet, sometimes, looking at the table, or into the distance, though it was anyone’s guess what he was looking at behind those sunglasses. But he still laughed with the same reckless abandon after a glass or two of wine, he still affected the same artistically dramatic slouch, and when he called Aziraphale “angel” it had the same ring to it as always. Both of them were pretending certain things hadn’t happened, but there had always been an element of pretending in their relationship. Somehow, it was okay.

And then everything changed. The world was going to end, if Crowley and Aziraphale let it. _Their_ world. Their home, the only place where their furtive friendship could exist. It would be the end of Aziraphale and Crowley—Well, the end of Aziraphale _or_ Crowley, since only one side could win the war, but either way it could be the last time they saw each other.

But it wouldn’t be, of course, because their plan would succeed. Aziraphale tried not to think about how he would spend his time if the end really were certain, about how many picnics and Ritz dinners could fit into eleven years. It would be so easy to give in and tell Crowley everything and spend their last years together, like he’d once dreamed of doing, but that would mean abandoning Earth to its fate. To confess to Crowley would be to accept and admit that he’d never have another chance to say those things. Aziraphale had come close to that sort of giving up before, that night when he had foolishly taken Crowley’s hand, and he did not intend to do so again. Their plan would work. Maybe it didn’t go quite the way they expected, and maybe they had the wrong boy after all, but they could still find the real antichrist and stop all of this, they could still save everyone…

They both caved at the bandstand. Crowley took Aziraphale’s unthinking “may you be forgiven” and turned it into something else, something he thought they had put behind them years ago. “Oh, I won’t be forgiven,” he said with new sharp edge with which he now talked about the Fall. He’d been pacing, but he stopped and switched directions. “Won’t ever. Part of a demon’s job description: unforgivable, that’s what I am.”

For a fleeting second, Aziraphale remembered those old hopes of being together, and part of him wondered whether Crowley might have changed his mind, whether there was still a chance for him to join the winning side of the war… “You were an angel once.”

It was a simple statement of fact, not an instruction, not even a suggestion. He still shouldn’t have said it. Crowley sounded tired when he said, “That was a long time ago.”

Aziraphale let him change the subject. He hated himself for even bringing it up. They had already settled this. He’d been weak to think about what might happen if the Great War couldn’t be avoided. They could still find the boy, as Crowley was currently reminding him, and maybe he wouldn’t like what they had to do to him, but they could do it. Well, Aziraphale didn’t think he could— _One_ of them could do it—

He should never have brought up forgiveness. Now Crowley was on edge, and they were wasting time arguing about who would kill the boy. Crowley had lost patience. He was leaving.

“You can’t leave, Crowley,” Aziraphale called after him. “There isn’t anywhere to go.”

Crowley turned around and spread his arms. “It’s a big universe. Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can…go off together.”

“Go off…together?” Something in Aziraphale’s chest hurt. For one shining second, he let himself imagine it, just the two of them, with that word _together_ ringing in his ears…

Then he saw the offer for what it was. Crowley had given in to the same impulses as Aziraphale, and was planning a way for them to be together even if their plan failed. He had given up.

Aziraphale only remembered snatches of the ugly, hurtful things he’d said to Crowley after that. Clever, wily, brilliant Crowley, always breaking the rules and finding a third option—But that wasn’t what they needed right now. They needed to _win_ the game, not cheat and walk away and hide from it. He was furious with Crowley for giving up, and aching to go with him, and fighting with himself to do what he needed to do for the sake of Earth. He didn’t need Crowley’s help. If he pushed Crowley away, made him angry, made the demon hate him, Crowley wouldn’t come back. He’d hide in the stars by himself, and whatever happened, he’d be safe.

Except Crowley did come back, desperate and terrified and begging Aziraphale to run away with him. Aziraphale almost broke, and then he remembered everyone else on Earth who Crowley was asking him to abandon, all the wonderful little restaurants and the art they made and the stories they told each other…Crowley loved all of what made Earth special, and surely he’d still want to try to save it if he was thinking clearly, but he wouldn’t _listen,_ and he didn’t seem to care that the Almighty would fix it, or that they could still win the game. He was too scared. All he wanted to do was run away.

This would be the last time Aziraphale ever saw him.

There had been half a dozen other times that might have been the last, but it had never felt this immediate, with Crowley standing on the curb and threatening to drive away. _Tell him the truth,_ said the more reckless voice in his head. _You won’t get another chance._

_Push him away,_ said the sensible voice. _Make sure he never comes back._

If Aziraphale told Crowley that he loved him, Crowley would stay, even with all the demons of hell coming after him, and he couldn’t allow that. But he had already hurt Crowley so much, and when he opened his mouth to say some other cruel thing, he heard, _I’ll never be good enough for you, will I?_ and _you’ll never forgive me for Falling,_ and, _unforgivable, that’s what I am._

“I forgive you,” he said, trying to pour everything he felt into those three words.

Crowley exhaled in frustration. He shouted at Aziraphale some more, and then drove away for the last time.

And then Aziraphale went into the bookshop, activated the summoning circle that had slept under his rug for decades, and found out the game had been rigged all along.

In the end, they cheated. And it worked.

The motor of the bus hummed underneath them as it chugged along back to London, so gentle and quiet compared to everything else that had happened that day. Aziraphale felt numb. Everything that had happened was tangled in his head, a mess of fire and guns and exploding cars, the sudden silence of a timeless desert and then a volcanic rumble from fiery depths, but now everything was quiet. It had _worked._ Earth was still here.

And Crowley was still here, sitting next to him and looking out the window with one elbow propped up on the window. His other hand was in Aziraphale’s. He wasn’t sure how it had happened. Crowley had sat down and Aziraphale took the seat next to him, and then there was a hand in his, like it was always supposed to be there. He didn’t know which of them had reached first, but neither of them let go. They were…Aziraphale’s throat spasmed. They were on their own side.

He didn’t even know how to begin to apologize for everything.

The bus rolled to a stop directly outside Crowley’s flat, even though there was no stop marked there. Reluctantly, Aziraphale released Crowley’s hand and got to his feet to exit the bus. Crowley followed him, and they walked side-by-side up to the door of the building. Crowley edged ahead of him to open the door, and then lead Aziraphale into the elevator and down the hall to his door. “Not really your style, I’m afraid,” said Crowley, as he opened the door and flicked on the lights. “It’s a roof and walls, though.”

“I appreciate it.” His voice cracked on the memory of the bookshop, which probably wasn’t even that much anymore. “Really, Crowley. Thank you.”

“‘Course.”

Aziraphale took a few exploratory steps and looked around. Crowley’s minimalist flat was a stark contrast to his bookshop. Aziraphale didn’t see how Crowley could possibly be comfortable here. He only kept the barest furniture, and most of the walls were plain, flat, neutral-colored polygons. The only decorations in the room were a large globe on the table and a framed sketch on the wall. “You certainly keep the place neat,” he said with forced cheer. “Crowley?”

The demon was leaning against the closed door, watching Aziraphale explore his home. His expression was difficult to read. His eyebrows lifted a hair when Aziraphale called his name. “Sorry. Thinking. Make yourssself at home.”

The hiss betrayed his anxiety. Aziraphale frowned. “What were you thinking about, my dear?”

Crowley didn’t answer for a moment. “Earlier today,” he said quietly. “Did you mean what you said?”

Aziraphale looked down miserably. At least Crowley had started the conversation for him. “No. No, not at all”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Uh.”

“I didn’t mean a word of it.” Aziraphale took a few steps towards Crowley, perhaps intending to take his hand, but stopped before he got close enough to do so. “Of course we’re friends, Crowley. Of course I like you.”

“I know you didn’t mean that. Christ, Aziraphale, I know you better than that. That was them talking, not you.” He nodded towards the ceiling.

Aziraphale let out a shuddering breath and smiled in relief. “Oh, that’s good. I was afraid—But then why did you ask?”

“Nnn, uh. Not what I meant.” Crowley cleared his throat. Aziraphale had the sense that Crowley was avoiding looking at him, even behind the sunglasses. “You said that you. Forgive me.”

Aziraphale had almost forgotten about that, and anyway he’d assumed that Crowley hadn’t understood him. Crowley seemed to have a guess of what Aziraphale had meant, but maybe he hadn’t been clear enough. Or maybe Crowley was second-guessing his interpretation, the way Aziraphale tended to do. He needed Crowley to understand. “Yes.”

Crowley swallowed. “For…?”

“Everything.” He stepped forward, closed the remaining distance between them, and took one of Crowley’s hands in both of his. It felt daring and new and wonderful to be able to touch Crowley, turn his hand over and let his fingers trail over the lines of Crowley’s narrow palm, and the veins in the back of his hand. “I’m sorry I ever thought there was anything to forgive. You’re good enough, just as you are. You’ve always been.” He folded both his hands around Crowley’s. “You’re perfect.”

They stood like that for a moment. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something else, and a strange sound came out of Crowley’s throat. When Aziraphale looked up, there were tears leaking from behind the dark lenses.

“Oh, no.” He dropped Crowley’s hand. Part of him wanted to reach up and wipe the tears from Crowley’s cheeks, and another part of him instinctively warned that that sort of affection was too dangerous. As a compromise, his hands fluttered uselessly in the space between them. “I didn’t mean to—”

Crowley wiped his face against his shoulder in an unbalanced shrug. “Can’t just sssay stuff like that to me, angel.”

“You _asked_.”

“I didn’t think you were gonna say ‘perfect’!” Crowley drew an odd, shuddery breath. “Which I’m not, you know that better’n anyone—”

“You are to me.”

Crowley froze. A silent hiccup shook his shoulders.

Aziraphale couldn’t stand it anymore. One or both of them was going to fall apart if he didn’t do something soon. He took a half-step forward and pulled Crowley into a hug.

Crowley’s breath spasmed again, and then his arms wrapped around Aziraphale tightly enough to hurt. His sunglasses fell off and clattered to the floor behind Aziraphale. He was shaking, and crying into Aziraphale’s collar, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “M’not,” he said again. “M’a _demon_ —”

“You thought for yourself, instead of blindly following h-heaven.” Aziraphale’s eyes were wet now, as well. This was his fault. He’d caused Crowley years of pain, and now his beloved demon was crying. “Instead of believing everything they said, about Earth, about y-you—” He shut his eyes to squeeze the tears out. “I’m so sorry, dearest. Can you f-forgive me, for—for being an angel all this time?”

“Nnngh, Aziraphale, please.” If possible, Crowley squeezed him even tighter. “S’already forgiven. All of it.”

Aziraphale’s hands fisted into the back of Crowley’s jacket as his heart nearly burst with relief, and gratitude, and so much love. “You’re s-so— _good_ to me,” he sobbed. “I don’t deserve—”

“No, nuh, none of that.” Crowley drew a deep breath and pulled back to look at Aziraphale. “No more of that. We were on opposite sides, but not—S’our side now. Yeah?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale fought the impulse to apologize again. He would make it up to Crowley a hundred times over, if Crowley would let him stick around and try. “Our side, From now on.”

Crowley looked a mess. His eyes were golden from corner to corner, the skin around them red and puffy and wet from crying. He was still covered in soot from the burning car, tear-tracks cutting through the grime on his cheeks. But he was smiling, wider and more brightly than Aziraphale had ever seen him. Aziraphale could have looked at that smile forever. He let out a breathy laugh, tipped forward, and pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s, his arms slung over the angel’s shoulders. “From now on.”

“It is about time.” Aziraphale felt himself mirroring Crowley’s smile. “I’ve wanted this for so long—”

“—Angel, you’ve no idea—”

“I never thought it would happen like this—”

“—And neither of us even had to fall, or, or—”

“There was a whole third option that neither of us even thought about.”

“Well.” Crowley shrugged. “I thought about it a little.”

“You never said anything.”

“Wuh, yeah, I didn’t think it was feasible to just up and quit both our jobs, did I? Anyway, you wouldn’t’ve…” Crowley trailed off. He pulled away, just a few inches, but enough to break their contact.

Aziraphale reached up to lay a hand along Crowley’s cheek, coaxing the demon to look at him. “I’m here now,” he reminded him, softly smiling. Crowley’s eyes filled with emotion, and he placed his hand over Aziraphale’s, holding it there. “And anyway,” Aziraphale went on. “ _I_ quit my job. You, I believe, were fired.”

“What—!” Crowley pushed Aziraphale’s hand away and pretended to be insulted. “I’d have quit, if they hadn’t fired me first.” He blinked. “Speaking of fire. Agnes’ prophecy.”

“Ah yes, ‘choose your faces wisely’.” Aziraphale looked down at his hand, which was sooty from touching Crowley’s face, and grimaced. “I believe it would be wise of you to wash yours. Look at this.” He held it up for Crowley to see.

Crowley brushed his hand away. “No, I’ve got an idea.”

“I hope your idea involves taking a shower.”

“Could be. Or a bath.” Crowley moved past Aziraphale so he could pace in the larger room behind him. “Maybe a hose, but the water pressure in hell is garbage, and it’d probably leak all over the place. They wouldn’t risk that.”

Aziraphale watched him, confused. “Why would you go to hell for a shower?”

“I don’t. You do.” Crowley took him by the shoulders. “Think about it. They’ll try to destroy both of us. So if we switch places, choose our faces wisely…”

“Then they can’t,” Aziraphale finished as understanding dawned. “If they use holy water and hellfire…”

“We’re going to get out of this.” Crowley looked into his eyes with a growing smile. “Aziraphale. We’re going to get out of this. We’ll live. Both—both of us.”

Returning the smile, Aziraphale completed the thought he hoped Crowley was trying to say. “Together?”

“Hope so.” Crowley hugged him again, not clinging desperately like the first time, but gently, as if he simply wanted to hold Aziraphale close to him. He shuddered a little from the newness of it, and let his head sink onto Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale leaned into him, unable to stop himself from smiling. It was a brilliant plan, so clever and unexpected that only Crowley could have thought of it. He had never been gladder that they were so different, one angel and one demon, who could take each other’s places, cover each other’s backs, complete what the other was missing. It simply _worked,_ in a way he couldn’t have anticipated, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. He wrapped his arms around Crowley and beamed into his beloved demon’s shoulder. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm sorry that I advertised a happy ending and then immediately wrote more angst first, but I couldn't title this "You were an angel once" and then just ignore the bandstand scene. But we got there! I hope this was a satisfying conclusion, and that it was worth reading 40K words. I appreciate the hell out of every single one of you who made it through to the end, and I wish you all clear skin and watered crops for all your days <3 Thank you!


End file.
